Harry Potter and the Skeletal Key Book 8
by RozzandMaya
Summary: Hogwarts enrollment is in trouble and Harry, as its official ambassador, must drum up business from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang and foil a murder most foul in the process - his own.
1. McGonagall's Problem

"Today marks the beginning of a new era of freedom in our world," Kingsley Shacklebolt said. He ran one hand a bit nervously over the heavy tapestry of his robes. The other hand held his wand to his throat, casting his words across the open lawn in front of Hogwarts with an amplification charm. "Battles have been fought, and lives have been lost, but hope," he paused and nodded to Harry across the crowd, "lives on."

Harry joined the applause that followed this statement. It was a surprisingly small group today. The staff of Hogwarts had been instructed to attend by Head Master McGonagall, and although Harry recognized a few faces, here and there, Hagrid of course, Professor Flitwick, Professor Sprout, all of whom were paying excellent attention to Kingsley's speech, there was a distinct look of unease on the remaining faces. Chief among the fidgeters was Horace Slughorn, and the rest of them, Harry didn't even recognize. There were no students present. A few reporters for the Daily Prophet, and some ministry officials. In fact, the Weasley family comprised the largest contingent of the audience, dotting the crowd like freckles with their red hair.

"We are here to dedicate this memorial to the lives lost during the Battle of Hogwarts, and during the greatest struggle against Evil that has occurred in our age," Kingsley said.

"He still won't say the name," Hermione muttered by Harry's side.

"Pay attention," Ron muttered back.

"I _am_ paying attention," Hermione retorted, "he won't say 'Voldemort' because he doesn't want to anger the Death Eaters, politics that's all." She frowned at Kingsley. "You'll see," she whispered to Ron.

Harry smiled. Somehow during this exchange, Ron had managed to slide a hand across Hermione's back.

"And now," Kingsley said, turning to his helpers, "unveil the monument."

Four wizards dressed in the most solemn Ministry robes drew their wands and with a quiet _Revelio _lifted the obscuring charm from the memorial. The little group once again clapped appreciatively.

Harry thought it was an excellent likeness of Dumbledore. It was about twenty feet high, and made of solid granite, probably would last longer than anyone would remember who it was. Thousands of years, perhaps. Dumbledore stood in stone, with his hand outstretched to welcome untold generations of students through Hogwarts' gates, his face smiled, but there was a hint of defiance in the expression, a quiet peace, a look that said 'thus far and no further'. In fact, it was the very expression that Harry had seen in his eyes, the night that he had died.

Harry's breath caught in his chest involuntarily, and his throat got very dry. He coughed and pulled at his tie a little.

"Look Harry," Hermione said.

Harry raised his eyes again.

"His hand, he's holding-"

Dumbledore's other hand pressed close to his bosom, clutching a precious single lily into the stone folds of his robes.

Harry met Kingsley's eyes across the crowd. He nodded at Kingsley and was gratified to see a smile spread across the other's face in turn.

It was a fitting tribute.

"Then, let us have the dedication," Kingsley said, turning behind him.

Another group of Ministry officials moved forward carrying a long train of golden streamers. Leading the group were four first-years one for each house, two young witches and two young wizards, only eleven years old, their faces flush with the excitement of the day and the promise of learning about the magical world that they lived in. Harry thought back on his first year. How young they seemed to him now, but how old he had felt then!

A ministry official handed each one of the first-years the golden globe that was attached to the end of the streamer.

Ron elbowed Harry sharply in the ribs.

"Undersecretary," Kingsley said, "Will you give the call?"

"Certainly," was the answer. And Dolores Umbridge stepped out of the shadows and raised her wand. "Ready children?" she asked, and then on call the four students threw their globes in a great arc over the monument. The streamers trailed behind, snapping through the air in a great long suspended arc. When the globes touched the ground on the other side, the ribbons exploded into an iridescent rainbow, red, green, yellow and blue.

There was enthusiastic cheering from the crowd. Or at least from part of the crowd. The Weasleys did not seem to be as enthusiastic as the rest. A lump formed in Harry's throat.

He stared at Umbridge, willing her to meet his gaze, but she would not look at him.

"Thank you all," Kingsley said, "for your sacrifice, and personal commitment that crossed the untold boundaries of sea and sky and have brought us here today, on the other side of the fight, to a world that is safe for our students once again."

"You see," Hermione said.

"How did _she_ get here?" Harry hissed, the first moment that he managed to pull aside from the general group and snag Hermione and Ron alone. Umbridge had disappeared after the speech, diapparated no doubt.

"I told you," Hermione said, "Her trial was to be today." She took a glance back at Kingsley, who was shaking hands with Professor Sprout. "She was acquitted."

"But why? She's a Death Eater, everyone knows that." Ron said.

Harry got a sinking feeling.

"The Ministry was full of Death Eaters," Hermione told them, "the Wizengamot as well. Now that it's all over, they are all saying that they were Imperiused. It's just like last time."

"Coo," Ron said.

Not the most eloquent expression, but it summed Harry's feelings up pretty well.

"Tell me more, Hermione."

"They felt that due to the fact that she was never directly involved with any of Voldemort's murders, and also that there were so few people left to run the Ministry that she was acquitted of all charges and retained her post as Undersecretary to the Minsiter."

_But she is evil,_ Harry wanted to say. He didn't.

"Shacklebolt agreed?" He asked instead.

Hermione nodded.

Harry smacked his fist against his leg. He looked back across the grass towards the monument, at it's sparkle and promise. It would headline the Daily Prophet tomorrow. The War is Over! Justice Done! Free At Last! And yet Umbridge would remain at the Ministry. And who knows how many countless others. And Kingsley agreed.

"Mad Eye wouldn't have agreed." Harry said.

"What's the plan?" Ron asked.

Harry and Hermione looked at him.

"What?" Ron said, "No I mean it, what's the plan? We can't just let her go roaming around the countryside making children write with those quills. She headed the mudblood registration comittee! Let's find the proof, have another trial and send her to Azkaban."

A vision flashed before Harry's eyes. He saw the faces of Azkaban escapees over the years, dozens, maybe scores of them. Bellatrix LeStrange. They got out. Umbridge wouldn't get out.

"Azkaban is a shambles," Harry said, " We need another answer. A better answer to this."

Hermione grabbed his sleeve, "Harry Potter what makes you think that...well just because you won against..."

"What, old toad face will be too tough on him?" Ron said, laughing.

Harry laughed too. Hermione didn't.

"Times are changing," she said. "We're grown up now. We can't solve everything with optimism. The Ministry is rebuilding. They can't convict _every_ Death Eater. There's just too many. It's a fact. It's political." She crossed her arms. Harry realized she was trying to stop trembling.

"We'll yours is an enlightened opinion, anyhow," Ron said.

Hermione glared at Ron, turned on her heel and walked away.

"I mean, it's bloody well only been a few months," Ron said to Harry, but a little too loudly not to be heard by Hermione. "What's happened to _her?"_

"What's happened to whom, Mr. Weasley?" Headmaster McGonagall said from behind Harry's shoulder.

They both jumped and turned around. McGonagall was standing a few inches away. How long she'd been there, Harry couldn't tell.

"It is impolite to refer to someone in that tone of voice in the third person," McGonagall said squarely. "Potter I would like to speak with you briefly in my office if you can spare the time."

"Yes," Harry said, "Of course."

Ron just looked sheepish. Harry smiled at him and poked him in the ribs as he followed McGonagal away. Here they were, graduated from Hogwarts, full wizards and McGonagall could still tweak Ron's nose.

* * *

><p>Dumbledore's office, for it would always be Dumbledore's office to Harry no matter who occupied it was the same. McGonagall hadn't made any changes really, no personal touches. The shades were drawn across the windows, the paintings hung sleepily. There were a few scattered papers on the desk, the only sign that McGonagall used the room at all.<p>

She glided over to the desk and rested her fingers on its edge before she spoke to Harry.

"You realize of course, that this is probably best not spoken of outside this room," she said.

"What? What's the problem?"  
>McGonagall gestured behind her. "Don't say anything. Up there, on the wall. Don't say the name."<p>

Harry looked.

Above the desk chair, in fact right next to Dumbledore's painting was an excellent likeness of Severus Snape. He was standing in dutifully Napoleonic fasion, with one hand stuck inside his waistcoat and the other resting on the back of the chair. The face was vacant of the expression and the eyes stared dead ahead. It wasn't a magical picture. Just a painting.

It should have been obvious that since Snape had been Headmaster at Hogwarts for a time, that his picture should go in the Headmaster's gallery. It startled Harry for a moment, but once he thought about it, he sympathized. In fact, Harry approved.

"I still don't understand," he asked McGonagall. "but why isn't it a real picture?"

"It is," McGonagall said, "He's just being stubborn, if you watch him for a while, he blinks every now and then."

Harry smiled.

"If you say his name you'll attract his attention," McGonagal said. "I'd like to tell you about something without him hearing, if possible."

Harry noticed that Snape's picture was attracting attention of another sort. From the next picture frame over, Dumbledore was wadding up a spit ball and elaborately preparing to insert it into a straw and fire it. Harry observed that the floor under Snape's feet were littered with such missles.

"Mr. Potter, Hogwarts is in serious financial trouble," McGonagall said. "And likely to soon be in greater."

She wavered a bit. It looked like she was going to fall over so Harry took a step forward to help. McGonagal waved him away and sat down in her chair.

"The truth is," McGonagall, "That Beauxbatons and Durmstrang have both been playing a dangerous political game. I'm sure it's crossed your mind. Neither school has ever acknowledged the legitimacy of the war, or the existence of...Voldemort..." The pause was brief, but significant to Harry. Even McGonagall was not free from the svengali spell that the name held.

McGonagall gathered herself and continued, "Durmstrang may have been actively flirting with the Death Eaters and their Recruiters. Beauxbatons as you know has many connections with the non-human magical world, Giants, Veela, Centaurs, Mermaids, and their loyalties have always been somewhat divided. The fact is, both of them managed to stay out of the war. I thought that their political wavering would be detrimental once we triumphed, but it seems that is not the case."

"Once people realize," Harry interrupted, "the significance that Hogwarts, Dumbledore, played in freeing our world-they can't fail to recognize it!"

"No," McGonagall said, "fifty students died during the Battle of Hogwarts. The fact is, that Hogwarts is no longer perceived as safe." She sank back against her chair, "and I? I can't say I blame those parents who only want to see their children live to adulthood. Enrollment is almost half of what it was the previous year."

Harry's eyebrows shot up. Half? "But," he said, "I thought you had, you know, districting. You mean that all the students are going to Beauxbatons and Durmstrang?"

"Or simply staying home. Harry, we're already faced with raising tuition," here McGonagall paused and looked at him over her glasses, "oh that's right, I'd almost forgotten. James and Lily Potter's Family Trust provided for your education. Dumbledore himself was the Trustee. You were not involved in any direct way with tuition payments."

Harry had honestly never thought about it before. He had been to his vault at Gringotts, obviously he could afford to attend Hogwarts, it had simply never occurred to him that the teachers had to make a living. He almost smiled. Hermione. Hermione would have words to say to him if she'd known. Her father's tireless efforts at dentistry suddenly made more sense.

"The minute we raise our tuition, the more students will have to move to the other schools," McGonagall said. "Already we've pared the staff to a bare minimum. You wouldn't believe the kindness Harry-" she leaned forward, clearly excited, "did you know that Trelawney and Sprout have refused to be dismissed? That they've pledged to work without pay, business as usual and have taken a flat together to minimize expenses?"

Harry shook his head, "No," he said, "I hadn't."

"And Flitwick has volunteered to sell the orchestra instruments, which he privately owns, in order to keep Hagrid's brother Grawp in good stable. Is stable the best word? No perhaps not. Flitwick's leaving, but he's leaving a legacy behind him. Hagrid and Filch have teamed together to keep the grounds in order, though goodness knows we don't know how we'll feed them."

She stopped speaking, and Harry didn't have the heart to say anything for some moments. He had never seen McGonagall in this kind of state. Of course, he had never heard of Hogwarts being in this kind of position. It didn't make sense to him. Hogwarts was famous, and for things like honor, integrity, passion, and courage. Students were afraid of attending? Hogwarts didn't have enough money to operate?

"We need help, Mr. Potter," McGonagall said finally, straightening up and regaining a firm grip on the arm of her chair. "I appeal to your loyalty to the House of Gryffindor, to say the very least. You are the perfect person to conduct the kind of marketing campaign that we need to set Hogwarts back on a competitive track. We need an Ambassador."

"But, what I don't understand is," Harry said, "why does Hogwarts need to be 'competitive' with Durmstrang and Beauxbatons? I thought that we were supporting each other with cooperation, not competition. If I go out and get more students to come to Hogwarts, then the other schools will suffer the same way we are now. The magical world needs friends, not competitors. We need to rebuild our society."

"Potter," McGonagall said, "We need to be competitive for one simple reason. I have no intention of moving to France."

"Bravo."

It was a strangled, whispered, groaning, mumbling kind of sound. It came distinctly from Snape's painting. Both Harry and McGonagall turned to look at it. Snape had not moved.

"If we cannot raise our headcount," McGonagall said, turning back to Harry, "Hogwarts will have to close. I don't think either of us will agree that this is a fair outcome for the school that single-handedly fought off Voldemort's return."

"No," Harry had to agree, "it isn't."

"Get some rest, Mr. Potter," McGonagall said, sighing, "I'll contact you tomorrow with an itinerary. I suspect that you'll have a few things to talk about with Mr. Weasley and Miss Granger between now and then. I have no objections to them accompanying you, goodness knows the three of you are joined at the hip. However, it will affect the travel and lecture schedule. All in a day's work, all in a day's work."

She picked at her skirt with slender wrinkled fingers. For the first time, Harry noticed that it was getting a bit threadbare. Maybe Hogwart's financial problems had been going on longer than he'd suspected. Years perhaps.

"Thank you Headmaster," he said, "I'll think about what you've said."

McGonagall nodded.

Harry turned to leave, but then he turned back.

"Did you know that Dolores Umbridge was going to be at the ceremony today?" He fired at her, all the anger that he felt surging to the surface. He was bloody well not going to be a Diplomat for Hogwarts if capitulating to petty tyrants and bureaucrats was what it entailed.

McGonagall shook her head. "No."

"Well?" Harry prodded, "What are we going to do about it!"

"She's not a Death Eater. She was acquitted," McGonagall said, "Heavens, can you imagine her with the Dark Mark? A tattoo? She's got an unfortunate personality, true, but evil? She's too petty to be evil."

"She's a fiend," Harry said. And then he stomped out of the room before McGonagall could reply. He didn't want to talk about this. It was settled. Umbridge was a bad person. His right hand burned, and he wasn't going to lie about it now just to stop from making waves.

He ran into Kingsley Shacklebolt at the bottom of the stairs.

"Oh," Kingsley said.

Harry did not greet the man at all. He would have walked right by him, had not Kingsley reached out and taken hold of his arm.

"Harry," Kingsley said, "We have a very important, grave matter to discuss."

"Yes," Harry said snappishly, "I suppose we do."

"I'll send you an owl when it's safe to talk," Kingsley said.

"Oh," said Harry, and then he pulled his arm away from Kingsley and left.


	2. Harry's Housewarming Party

Harry walked off of the Hogwarts grounds and apparated to number 12 Grimmauld Place. He didn't even take care to stay out of sight. He just appeared on the sidewalk and stood there.

It was a cloudy day, and the cool breezes got through Harry's pullover and prickled his skin. He rested his arms on the wrought iron fence and leaned against it. This house was now his own, but it didn't feel like his own any more than he felt ready to be an Ambassador for Hogwarts. He couldn't even send letters now that Hedwig was gone.

And he didn't even have a grave to visit. Not for Hedwig, not for Sirius. No, this house was not his own yet.

It was a dismal place. The grass was yellow, waiting for the fall rains to begin. Waiting for the winter to crisp everything up again, to give it life and excitement. But there was no Hogwarts this year. No classes, no examinations, no books to study, no trouble to be gotten into, no Voldemort to fight. His scar was numb. It was good, really, it was the first time he'd tasted peace in his life.

It was good, really, but it needed adjusting to.

Maybe the war wasn't as over as he'd thought. With Umbridge back at the Ministry, there'd be devilry to defeat this year for sure. Just smaller mischief, easier than evil, a way for him to learn to live again.

He leaned back and gave the iron railing a kick, then walked in and up to the door.

This was his house now, he reminded himself. He'd live in it, and make a life and home in it. And he wouldn't be alone here, he reminded himself quietly. A thought had been growing in his heart ever since that day when Voldemort was finally gone. Maybe this would be the year. Maybe this would be the month, the week even. He was not going to be alone.

The door creaked open. Harry stared down the long hallway. He'd gotten rid of the tongue twisting curse that Mad Eye had placed there. He'd given the house-elf heads to Kreacher, although Kreacher had not chosen to move them. And now he stared at the veiled painting in front of him at the top of the stairs. In fact the only reason that he'd not boarded it over up to this point was that Kreacher remained absolutely devoted to his 'Mistress' and Harry appreciated that an upset Kreacher could translate into an upset stomach for Harry. Kreacher's cooking was excellent, his loyalties however remained questionable. Harry was working on Kreacher though.

All was silent, except for a muffled, tiny noise. _Filth, mudbloods, scum_. The familiar chant, the familiar shriek, yet almost inaudible. A silencing charm.

_Homenum Revelio _Harry whispered, drawing his wand.

"Suprise!"

The shout overwhelmed him, and suddenly from all corners of the house streamed Weasleys. It looked like it was all Weasleys, but Harry was to stunned to look closely. In another second more, a Granger came flying through the air at him to fold him in a distinctly Granger-ish hug. Red hair. Everywhere.

"Happy housewarming party Harry," Hermione said to him, beaming from ear to ear. "Gosh you are suprised, aren't you."

Harry carefully lowered his wand and nodded a couple times. He straightened his glasses and the room focused a bit more. The room had exploded into a brightly colored display of streamers, balloons, confetti, Weasleys of course, Weasley's-extended-family now that he noticed, bobbing dirigible plums, Neville Longbottom, and acres and acres of white-clothed tables covered with food.

"Harry come in," Mrs. Weasley said, "you're standing there like we've just handed you a dragon."

"Norberta's doing well too," Charlie shouted from one corner and raised a tankard.

"Come on, Harry," Mrs. Weasley said, hauling him inside. "Close your mouth or you'll catch flies."

"I'm just a little, suprised, that's all," Harry managed to say. He'd just about stupefied the entire room a moment ago, he was so jumpy with his wand, but he didn't say that.

Everyone was here.

Harry found himself smiling.

"Well," said Mr. Weasley, pushing a ridiculous green pointed party hat out of his eyes. "Grab a plate Harry, you're first, and we're all hungry behind you so hurry up."

With an invitation like that, Harry had little thought of refusing.

* * *

><p>"And now the big present," Ron said, "come on, you can't have a housewarming party without a really big present."<p>

"Ron!" Hermione protested.

It was obvious from Hermione's tone of voice that the alleged 'big present' had been her idea. Harry emerged from the latest explosion of wrapping paper the proud new owner of a pair of cast-iron skillets and a checkered dishrag. Where he was going to put all this stuff he had no idea and didn't want to think about.

Mr. and Mrs. Weasley looked at each other and smiled and clasped each other's hands in a mushy and decidedly romantic sort of way.

"Well, stand up, because you all have to come into the kitchen," Hermione said.

Harry's glance flickered over to Ginny. She wasn't looking at him. He looked again at the Weasleys senior. Then he took a deep breath. He wouldn't even allow himself to think about it. He pushed the sensation away.

Harry was pushed and prodded to his feet, and herded into the kitchen.

"Please, Harry," Hermione said, giggling a bit, "open the back door."

It must be noted that Grimmaud place was a dismal piece of real estate and that the back door led to a two foot patch of bare dirt between the house and a brick wall. At least, Harry thought, as he turned the latch, they didn't have space to hide a dragon back there.

He flung the door open and jumped back a few feet, just for dramatic effect. It garnered the requisite laugh as Harry pretended to cower. But then Harry took the time to look.

"A Potions Garden," Ron announced and gave Harry a slap on the back that almost knocked the wind out of him. "Hermione's got a new spell, whatsit?"

"A _tunneling_ Invisible Extension Charm," Hermione said, "It's an extension on the extension charm."

"Go on then," Ron said and pushed Harry through the door.

Harry launched through the door into the bright sunlight and a beautifully manicured garden. There were plants that he recognized, and many that he did not. But there were more than just plants. There were insects, there were lizards, there were birds and spiders. Probably a Crumple Headed Snorkack if you looked closely enough.

"Had to spy on you for weeks so they could get in and fix it up while you were out of the house," Mr. Weasley said, poking his head through the door. "Ok, come now, dessert anyone?"

Harry knelt to the ground and stroked a Blueback with a careful finger. The grass was green and healthy and long. He took a deep breath and inhaled a delightful mix of fragrances, floral scents, berry scents, spices and aromatic herbs.

"Thank you," he said turning around. Ron and Hermione and Luna and Neville and Ginny were standing in the doorway.

He knew he must be grinning like a Cheshire Cat by now. A garden was just the thing. He'd gardened at the Dursleys. That had been his only hobby there. They'd been happy to let him spend his time with the plants, and that garden had been the best on the street. But he'd never been able to use magical plants there.

His eyes met Ginny's. She blushed. Harry felt his face go hot and figured he was blushing too.

"Well, are you just standing by the door," Harry asked, "or are you coming in? Look at this place, it's huge! Hermione how did you manage this?"

"Oh well it's all Hermione's doing now is it?" Ginny pushed past the others and poked him with one finger.

"Well, I didn't mean-"

"And I after I worked my fingers to the bone for you," she said saucily.

"Thank you, Ginny."

"All right all right," Ron said, "break it up you two. Look at these spiders. I got them from Hagrid, he said they wouldn't grow up as large as Aragog's brood, but they had the same strain." He pointed at a rock and Harry looked just in time to see it scurry out of sight.

"Do me a favor," Ron said, "make lots of potions out of those buggers."

"How do you make an extension charm work like this?" Harry asked Hermione. "Where is this place?"

Hermione waltzed by him, "Magic."

* * *

><p>It was much, much later that the party finally began to wind down. It was a strange thing, but Harry was uncomfortable with all the gifts and the small talk. When the door had closed on the last few Weasley relatives and Neville and chums had tossed their floo poweder into the chimneys, Harry felt absolutely exhausted.<p>

One thing was certain though, it felt good to have friends.

Harry was washing up in the kitchen now, and Hermione was wielding the towel in an expert fashion. Ron was sitting at the table and magicking the dishes into their proper places in the cupboard.

"You'll get fat Ron," Hermione was saying, "and you eat so much anyways."

Ron distinctly took no notice of this statement. He sent a few sparks out of his wand, gently lifted a plate from the counter and sailed it into the cupboard without nicking it against any of the walls or other china.

"Anyways," Hermione said, "turning back to Harry. I've decided to try for a teaching position at Hogwarts. It's really destiny, you both know how I've always loved to learn, I think it's only right to share that desire with others in the best way I can. I've been meaning to talk to Professor McGonagall about it, but I wondered if I should put together a resume first, that's what muggles do and I wasn't sure-"

Harry backed away from the sink and stared at Hermione.

"What's the matter?" she asked.

Harry shook his head. Where to begin? Poor Hermione, just itching to be a teacher. Of course it was perfect for her. So perfect that everyone had assumed it. Hermione herself was devoted to Hogwarts, more so than anything else.

"What is it?"

"I spoke to McGonagal earlier today," Harry said. "I don't think you'll get a teaching position this year. She's had to let go most of the staff. The ones that are staying aren't being paid."

"What?" Ron sat up and nearly dropped a dish.

"It's true," Harry said. "She said that enrollment is down to half of what it was last year, and likely to continue that way. This could be Hogwart's last year, she said."

"Money?" Ron said, a bit disgustedly, "this is all about money? How silly! Blimey, Harry, you've got money, why don't you go on and help them out."

Harry thought back to the vault at Gringotts and all those gold galleons. He hadn't thought of it that way.

"But that won't solve the problem forever," he pointed out, "the real problem is the lack of students."

Hermione looked a bit pale. She leaned back against the counter and let Harry and Ron talk without even the slightest interruption. It gave Harry an eerie feeling.

"Well," Ron said, "students will come back, you'll see. They've just had a bit of a scare about the War and all. Once everyone feels safe again, then Hogwarts will be right as rain. Come on, the place has existed for a thousand years, they've surely survived worse than the lack of a few students."

"McGonagall asked me," Harry said, "to be an Ambassador for them. She believes that if we travel around to Beauxbaton and Durmstrang that it may help to put Hogwarts' name back on the map, so to speak."

"That's a brilliant idea," Hermione said, a bit faintly.

"Well there's no 'we' to it this time," Ron said, "I've been meaning to tell you all the good news. George has taken me for a partner in the Joke Shop."

Hermione smiled. It was a soft smile, but it was a deep smile and it lifted Harry's spirits considerably.

"That's amazing Ron," she said, "Congratulations."

"I've let a flat with him and a couple of mates down the street in Diagon Ally," Ron continued. Then he seemed to flush a bit and retreat from his excitement. "Just making my start in life."

Harry nodded. "I know. I felt that way when I first started living here."

Ron looked over at him with anything but appreciation for the sympathy expressed.

"My parents," Hermione said, "they're still in Australia."

Both Harry and Ron's jaws fell.

"But it's been months," Harry said.

Hermione sighed, "I don't think I belong in that life anymore. I've looked in on them, and they're perfectly happy. I don't think it would do anyone good if they remembered me. Besides, I don't intend to live in the muggle world again. I was going to stay here, at Hogwarts..."

The coldness in her voice shocked Harry. He'd seen her a year ago when she'd first wiped their memories, and her grief then was sharp, and he'd thought, lasting.

"But if Hogwarts is in trouble," she said.

"Hermione," Ron said, and his voice had changed in a moment to become very deep and commanding, "speaking of money. Where have you been living this past year?"

Hermione dried her hands and turned squarely to face him. "I believe that's my own business Ron Weasley. Harry, I was going to say that, since it's unlikely that I'll get a job at Hogwarts any other way, I'd love to accompany you on your mission. I could give lectures, I'm sure I could be useful."

"Of course," Harry said, "McGonagal said that she half expected all three of us to sign on. No one knows Hogwarts history better than you."

Ron stood up. The room fell silent.

Harry was distinctly aware that Ron was quite a bit larger than him. He placed his hands in his pockets, but he didn't slouch his shoulders and turn away. Somewhere in the past year, Ron Weasley had gained the confidence that had appeared to elude him all his life.

"Hermione, you can't go with Harry," Ron said.

"Ronald Bilius Weasley!"

"Because," Ron said, "I'll go crazy with loneliness."

Hermione's steam was stolen. She opened her mouth, put her hands on her hips, then shut her mouth again without saying anything.

"Look," Ron said, "why don't you come and live with my parents. Ginny is awfully lonely now that the rest of us are gone. She's got her years to finish up and I'm sure you could tutor her through them. You could even take a job at the Joke shop. It'd only be for a little while, maybe a year, until I can save up enough money for us to-"

Hermione's face drained of color.

Ron was not to be deterred. "-buy a house." He said, "start a family. Build a life together. You know that. Don't look at me that way."

Harry's ears prickled. "You know," he said, "I'll just pop off upstairs and let you two talk this over."

"No Harry," Hermione said. "You. Stay. Right. There." She took a deep breath and looked up at Ron. "I think," she said, "that you'll be able to spare me for a semester or two at Beauxbaton and Durmstrang."

Harry coughed.

"_Considering_," Hermione continued loudly, "that I'll take a teaching position at either of those schools, fine schools, unless I can find one at Hogwarts. And _considering_ that most of the clients of the Joke Shop are Hogwarts students, I'd say that both our futures are on the line, aren't they?"

Ron grinned.

Hermione grinned.

Harry would have liked to crawl into a hole in the floor.

"So we can talk about my sales commission later Mr. Weasley," Hermione said. "Harry, when do we start?"

* * *

><p>"Kreacher," Harry said. "I don't know how I survived this party."<p>

Kreacher looked up from the cupboards that he was dusting, wrung his dirty rag, and shook his head.

"Cobwebs gone," Kreacher muttered, "all gone. Spiders gone."

Harry sat back and stuck his feet up on the table. "There, that should add some dust again," he said.

"Thank you Master Harry," Kreacher said with a sarcastic bow.

Then he went back to grumbling.

"Do you know anything about love, Kreacher?" Harry asked.

Kreacher turned around blankly.

"Because I don't," Harry said. "Mystifying. Did you see Hermione and Ron just now? They're like cats and dogs, but they love it." Harry paused, "you know, I really believe they love each other."

Kreacher did not answer. It became apparent that he considered Harry's questions to be rhetorical. Harry sighed. It was strange. So strange. All in a moment, he'd seen a look on Ron's face, that look that one knew where one was going, that look that the captain of a ship gets when he stares across the waves. Ron was grown up.

That's the way that they said it happened. All in an instant. When the boy disappeared and the man took his place. The trio was broken.

Harry certainly didn't feel grown up. In fact, Harry had as little clue about what was going on as when Dumbledore had been sending him on quests. Perhaps it was Harry's destiny. He'd have to ask Professor Trelawney to give him a reading. The Boy Who Lived Entirely In the Dark.

Kreacher began singing a song to himself as he dusted the cabinets. Harry listened, but couldn't make out the words. As Harry watched, Kreacher's face smiled a distant, ancient smile.

Harry imagined that Kreacher must have had a love of his own once.

He was sure of it.

/

_There it is! Please R& R...up next: a strange visitor_


	3. Trials and Travails and Travelers

The next morning, Headmaster McGonagall apparated to Harry's front doorstep at first light. Her gown was wrinkled and stained with dust. Her hat was gone and her hair was falling down. She looked like she had not slept.

"Harry," she gasped as he opened the door.

Harry caught her as she sagged to the ground. "Get inside! Here Kreacher! Help me carry her in!"

With a crack of elf-magic, Kreacher had appeared and taken control of the situation. He laid McGonagall on the couch, cracked to the kitchen, cracked back with a glass of water, cracked away again, cracked back with a blanket.

McGonagall seemed to be reviving. "Harry," she said again.

"Shh," Harry said, "wait until you've caught your breath. Then tell me quickly."

"You've got to get out of here." she said, "Kingsley and the Aurors will be here any minute."

"First, tell me why," Harry said.

McGonagall gave him an alarmed look.

"I'm not on the run anymore." Harry said, shrugging his shoulders, "I have nothing to fear from anyone."

In fact, he was tired of being on the run. He was tired of the secrecy and he was mostly tired of people going around and doing evil things for no good reason.

"A muggle is coming here," McGonagall said, "an important muggle, as it goes in their world."

"I think I'll be able to handle it," Harry said. He turned, "Kreacher? Make sure that Headmaster McGonagall is comfortable, and safe, and if anything bad happens, take both of us to Hogwarts immediately."

Kreacher made a courtly obeisance to McGonagall, then started twisting his hands together and muttering about 'filthy muggles in Mistress's house'.

"Who," Harry asked, "is the muggle? Why is Kingsley coming, and why do they need aurors?"

McGonagall's worked and twisted about like she was trying to decide whether to tell Harry or not.. None of this made sense.

"It would be so much better if you went away right now," she said, weakly.

Harry's frustration started to boil over. She wasn't telling him because she _wanted _to keep it a secret. He didn't sense any danger. His scar wasn't hurting him. He wanted a normal life now, and he wasn't going to get chased out of his own house for nothing. Well perhaps not _normal_ but at least quiet. Aurors? He hadn't done anything. He had nothing to run from.

"I live here," Harry said. "I'm not going anywhere. Unless, it's to Beauxbaton or Durmstrang, and we haven' t discussed the specifics of that yet."

McGonagall shook her head as if bemoaning the lack of respect for elders that the younger set exuded these dark days.

"I'll go and get you some tea," Harry said. "If you're so very worried, you can just tell me."

McGonagall fixed him with a stare that would have melted him into a puddle in his first year. The back of his neck prickled at the memory. Harry smiled and turned away.

He should have been worried about this.

Harry stood at the sink and looked out is tiny window into the potions garden that his friends had given him. The sun was always shining out there, basking the kitchen in warm yellow light. Even the old dusty house at Grimmaud place lit up in the light. The black hardwood glowing a deep brown, the tarnished brass knobs coming to life again. Harry took a deep breath. Then he filled the teapot with water. Whatever was waiting for him outside the door, he was ready.

Only there was nothing waiting for him outside the door.

He made the tea, poured a bit of firewhiskey into McGonagall's cup, and doused his own for good measure. They sat there in the parlor, sipping at the hot tea, and nothing happened.

Nothing happened.

No knocks, no Aurors. No Kinglsey Shacklebolt with Muggle.

"I thought that Beauxbaton and Durmstrang were unplottable," he said to McGonagall. He hoped that this might introduce a different subject.

McGonagall sat very straight and glanced through the drapes. Her eyes flickered back to Harry's face, then she sighed.

"I've contacted their Headmasters by owl." She said, "and both indicated that they would be delighted to have you travel to each and give a few lectures, demonstrate a patronus, oh they were particularly interested in that, fight a few duels-"

"Wait," Harry said, "duels?"

"Of course," McGonagall said, "how are you going to demonstrate anything if you don't duel. But don't lose, our reputation is riding on this."

"But I'm not a particularly good wizard," Harry said. "I was just the right one to fight Voldemort. Hermione's coming with me, that is, if we need to uphold Hogwart's academic reputation."

"Miss Granger? Excellent." McGonagall absently pulled back the curtain again and looked into the street.

"When do we go then?" Harry asked.

"Well that's just the problem, you see," McGonagall, "as I've been trying to tell you, I'm not the only person who wants to get a hold of you."

"Well then," Harry said, "tell me. We've got time." He sipped more of his tea.

"I tell you too much, Harry," McGonagall said, groaning.

"Suit yourself."

"I'm merely hoping to avoid an international catastrophe, that's all," she grumbled. "Now I know how Albus felt. I was always pushing him to tell you more, about where we suspected Voldemort was hiding, what his plans were. He never wanted to let you know more than absolutely necessary, and for your own protection mind, and now I fully agree with him."

Harry sat back in his chair.

"We're waiting for the owl from Beauxbaton," McGonagall said, "it contains the Skeletal Key that will show you through to the unplottable places."

"The Skeletal Key?"

"It's a magical key," McGonagall said, "that will reveal to you the journey you must make to reach each school."

"Brilliant," Harry said.

"Harry," McGongagall said, abandoning her use of the title 'Mr. Potter' for the second time today, "several muggles died in the Second Wizarding War."

Harry was aware of this in a peripheral way.

"Anyone in particular?" he asked.

McGonagal shook her head, "to the victim, I'm sure it was very particular. The point is, there was a major breach of the Secrecy Act."

"But I didn't kill any muggles," Harry said. "What does this have to do with me?"

"You're the Boy Who Lived," McGonagall said with a nasty twinkle in her eye. "You're famous. Everyone knows about you. Everything concerns you."

Harry shrugged.

He had hoped for other ways to entertain guests in his parlor, now that he had a house. He was almost one hundred percent certain that other adults didn't conduct themselves this way. The Weasleys for example, talked of the weather, and who was being born or married, and how lovely it all was for everyone to be together again. Aurors and fleeing hadn't come up since the end of the war.

Harry hoped desperately that it would stay that way.

McGonagall was still staring at him intently. "You still refuse to leave?"

Harry said nothing.

"They could be here any minute."

"I have nothing to fear."

McGonagall shook her thin shoulders, almost a shudder, and returned to staring out the window. She looked uncommonly pale in this gray daylight. In fact, she looked no different from any other English woman, utterly normal despite the robes, despite the pointed hat that rested on her knee. She fidgeted and she worried, and no magic was going to make her troubles go away. It had been a concept that Harry had been rolling around in his mind ever since Cedric Diggory's death, that magic didn't make much of a difference. It didn't change you, whatever spells you could do, however you could charm and bewitch, you were still the same. Almost the same as a muggle, if you came down to it. Here was Professor McGonagall the Fearless, worrying that there wouldn't be enough students next year to pay for Hogwart's upkeep. That was how you were the same.

Harry took a sip of his tea, pondered these thoughts, and then put them carefully away in the back of his mind for a later date. He probably wasn't old enough or experienced enough to come to any great conclusions now, but he'd revisit it later.

There was a knock on the door.

McGonagall started to her feet in an instant, and clapped her hat back on her head, further messing up her hair. She gestured silently towards the fireplace and the bowl of floo powder.

Harry set his teacup down, and walked towards the door. The hair was raised on the back of his neck as he did it, but he forced himself to. The war was over. He was home now.

"Ah, Minister, come in" Harry said to Kingsley Shacklebolt, a trifle coldy because he was still thinking about Dolores Umbridge at the ceremony yesterday. "To what do I owe the honor?"

Kingsley was followed by a tall thin man with extremely unfortunate teeth. This man was followed by an Auror in wizard robes, and a muggle Bobby.

"I'm sorry to interrupt things this way," Kingsley said, as he ducked inside, "the fact is, we wanted to make sure and catch you when you were at home. Good morning, Headmaster McGonagall."

"I know all about it," McGonagall shrilled, standing stiffly in the corner.

Kingsley scratched his ear.

"Please sit down," Harry said into the pause, still determined to be a good host.

"Oh, Harry," Kingsley said, "May I have the pleasure of introducing my good friend Prime Minister Anthony Charles Lynton Blair."

"Pleasure," the man said, "call me Tony."

Harry shook his hand.

"Tony and I became good friends last year when he took office, I had previously been assigned to guard Sir John Major as we had received information that the Death Eaters eventually planned an assassination." Kinglsey said, "I was working as the Prime Minister's secretary at the time, under cover."

It began to strike Harry who he had been introduced to. He had been pretty out of muggle politics, well entirely ignorant may be a better way of phrasing it, for nearly his entire life. He remembered hearing that an Iron Lady was Prime Minister when he was small, but beyond that and the vague curiosity of how a woman could be made of metal, he had had nil interest. It wasn't going to affect his life, after all. He was a wizard, and lived in the wizarding world.

He must have had a dazed look on his face, the Bobby handed him a piece of paper. He took it without glancing at it and merely held it.

"What's going on?" Harry asked.

"Well," the Prime Minister said, "We've got a bit of a sticky situation. As you know, not only the wizard world suffered the effects of the Second Wizarding War, and several muggles were murdered or tortured by the Death Eaters for information."

Harry glanced over at McGonagall. She was clearly shaken, standing with her mouth open in shock.

"As a matter of justice," the Prime Minister continued, "we clearly do all we can to make sure the perpetrators are brought to justice, and our relations with the Wizengamot relating to extradition or sentancing have always been very close. The fact is though, that Azkaban prison is clearly not what it once was, and in need of, according to our experts, in _serious_ need of repair and modernization. There have also been wizards," here the Prime Minister gave Kingsley a significant look, "that have questioned the ethics of using the Dementors on prisoners. But that is neither here nor there, the point is, Mr. Potter, that we are in a sticky situation."

All of this seemed pretty pointless to Harry. What situation? McGonagall was still as a stone, frozen in place.

"You speak about _our_ world," she said to the Prime Minister, clearly emphasizing the 'our', "as if you had grown up in it."

"I haven't had the pleasure," the Prime Minister said politely.

"The point is, Harry," Kingsley said, "is that we're bringing Lucius Black to trial. And we're trying the Carrows, Macnair, Rookwood, Thicknesse," he leaned closer, "Fenrir Greyback."

"Lucius _Black?"_ Harry asked.

"Sorry, Lucius Malfoy, you know who I mean," Kingsley said with a little laugh, "they're conjoined at the hip, the Blacks and the Malfoys. Always marrying each other."

Harry didn't see the humor. The slip didn't instill confidence in him that Kingsley had a great handle on things either. He didn't want the Malfoys lumped in with Sirius, that's certain.

"And we will make sure that the remaining Death Eaters do not escape justice for the crimes committed in either of our worlds," the Prime Minister said. "And to do that, we will need as many witnesses as we can have."

Harry remembered the paper.

"It's just a subpoena," Kinglsey said, "we need you to be available to testify."

McGonagall groaned from the corner.

"Of course," Harry said, "I'd be happy to."

"There's one other thing," the Prime Minister said, "Nothing serious, of course, but something that needs to be untangled. Personally I think the most likely explanation is that someone concocted a polyjuice potion and perpetrated the crime while masquerading as Mr. Potter, but we must be able to prove that in court."

Kingsley's Auror straightened and stepped forward, in an obviously ready stance.

Harry wasn't sure he understood, but he was determined not to cause any trouble.

"Someone says I committed a crime?" he asked.

"Unfortunately, there are several witnesses," Kingsley said, "who saw Harry James Potter in the flesh, walking down Tottenham Court Road, London, on the night of August 15th, 1997, enter the South Side Cafe slightly after midnight, witnessed a struggle of a magical nature, and then saw him leave again. A few mintues later, upon entering the Cafe, they discovered that Sarah Pemberly, a waitress was dead, and that Geraldo Martinez, the cook, had been subjected to the Cruciatus curse and was severly wounded. He later died."

"It was Dolohov and Rowe," Harry said. "We were ambushed."

"Oh yes, that's right," the Prime Minister said, "Miss Granger and Mr. Weasley were also summoned earlier today."

"Dolohov and Rowe," Kingsley said, "interesting. So you admit that you were present?"

A cold chill went up Harry's spine. He swallowed. Nothing for it but to tell the truth. Whatever else, the truth set you free.

"We fled after the Weasley's wedding," Harry said, "we were being attacked by Death Eaters. We just apparated to Tottenham Court Road to escape and collect our wits to figure out what to do next."

The Bobby pulled out a small piece of paper from his breast pocket and scribbled a note on it with a stub of pencil. The Auror gave him a distasteful look. Harry suddenly remembered that whatever he said may one day be used as evidence.

"They don't have wizard attorneys, do they?" Harry said, laughing nervously.

Kingsley and the Prime Minister traded glances. The looks on their faces were serious.

"I'm sure it won't come to that," the Prime Minister said, "after all, if your story is true, the state has not proven a motive. Never mind, never mind. It's merely justice that we're after, and you've given us some very useful leads Mr. Potter."

"Dolohov was killed in the battle of Hogwarts," Kinglsey told the Prime Minister, "Rowe has vanished. We think he's probably living as a muggle."

"More common than you think, Miss McGonagall," the Prime Minister said, leaning over in her direction. McGonagall didn't acknowledge him.

"What must I do?" Harry asked.

"Oh nothing as of yet, nothing," the Prime Minister said, "I just wanted to introduce myself, since I'm the main liason between our worlds. The trials aren't scheduled to begin for several more months, I'm sure you'll be able to complete your tour of Beauxbatons and Durmstrang before we even require your testimony."

"The other matter," Kingsley said, "is unlikely to amount to anything serious. But we'll let you know. And you should know, one of the witnesses that saw you that night was Dolores Umbridge."

Harry was shocked. "What?"

"That's why I couldn't fire her," Kingsley said, his forehead creasing in frustration, "not until all this is blown over. I would be playing favorites."

"There were others," the Prime Minister said softly.

Kingsley nodded. "All in due time."

"So," Harry said, "I just go about my business now, and you'll be in contact?"

"Exactly."

The Prime Minister and Kingsley said it at the same time.

"Brilliant," Harry said. "You know how to reach me."

"Thanks so much," the Prime Minister said, standing, and shaking Harry's hand on the way up. "We've got to be off now. It was lovely meeting you. I've heard so much about you. During the First Wizarding War my family had the honor of hosting your parents to a benefit concert once, and I'll always remember how gracious and gentle a lady Lily Potter was."

"You knew my parents?" Harry said, with an overly obvious tone of wonder in his voice. He coughed a bit and tried to look less foolish than he felt.

"The best people," the Prime Minister said. "Ta for now."

They got up to leave.

The Prime Minister stopped as he passed through the door, and paused. He turned around and smiled at McGonagall.

"You have to be a legilimens," the Prime Minister told her, "at the very least, to get by the House of Lords on a bad day."

Kingsley shrugged, and pushed the Prime Minister through the door. "Busy day today, busy day." he muttered.

The Bobby pocketed his notepad, nodded to Harry and stepped out. The Auror followed.

The door closed.

"Muggle Prime Minister indeed," McGonagall said. "You should have listened to me earlier and left."

"More tea?" Harry offered.

"Yes, but just bring out the bottle, I need a stiff one. And don't look so shocked, you're not a student now, I don't have to be on my best behavior with ungrateful upstarts like yourself."


	4. The Skeletal Key

A/N : Thank all of y'all for the story alerts and encouragement ….and thank you especially my one anonymous reviewer! You really made my day and I hope to live up to expectations!

Extra long post today rather than extra short. Enjoy!

* * *

><p>The next few days, nothing happened. Harry waited around Grimmaud place, looking at the tapestries, rummaging through Sirius and Regulus' rooms, dusting. Dusting, always dusting. Harry felt that Kreacher must be putting cobwebs back during the night. Kreacher denied it with a little winsome smile that made Harry all the more suspicious.<p>

It wasn't all that much use hanging around Grimmaud place, so harry went over to Diagon Alley to get both some summer style and winter style robes. He assumed that he'd be heading to Beauxbatons first.

He left the house through the floo network and wound up in the midst of a semi0riot. Well it wasn't a riot exactly. It looked like a beginning-of-term shopping frenzy. In fact, maybe it was a riot after all.

Cloaks swirled around him: first years with their eyes wide and faces flushed, third and fourth years linked arm in arm, laughing and giggling, the occasional haughty-looking Slytherin. Harry walked slowly along, drinking it in, particularly the first years. He could see his own first trip to Diagon alley mirrored in the faces of the muggle-borns that were wandering along, most of them accompanied by even more astonished-looking parents. It was such a brilliant sparkling world to be introduced to, with the goblin bank, the pubs, the ice-cream shop, stalls and bakers selling every imaginable pastry. Even Ollivander, bless his frail and ancient heart, was back in business, with the store repaired and looking as moldy and dilapidated as usual. A first year was just exiting the store, a little girl, bright pink with excitement and anticipation. She was carrying her new wand with both hands, gently, gingerly. Her father was with her, and he tipped his hat towards the inside of the store before the two of them set off down the alley. The thrill of magic rippled through Harry, and he was suddenly back with Hagrid, trying out his first wand, and terrified that it had all been a mistake. The shop itself had been destroyed by death eaters, Ollivander had been captured and tortured by Voldemort, but through it all, the magic had remained, and right had won out, and here he was, back again at the doorstep as if nothing had happened.

On this impulse, Harry darted inside to say hello.

And ran into Ginny. He had to fling his arms out and catch her to keep her from being bowled over.

Ollivander looked down from his ladder and re-perched his spectacles on his nose.

"Harry Potter!" both Ginny and Ollivander said at once.

Harry was sure that his face was now as bright red as the first year girl's had been.

"I'm so sorry," he told Ginny," are you all right?"

"Just fine," she said.

"Ollivander," Harry said, "It's so good to see the shop open again. I just wanted to say, well, it's rather awkward but well, I'm glad you're back with us, safe and sound."

Ollivander smiled down at him, "kind words. How's that wand of yours? I heard that it was broken in two, and then that you used another wand to mend it. Powerful magic that, you should take up wandmaking, that is, if you haven't already found another calling."

Harry pulled his wand out of his robes and placed it in Ollivander's outstretched hand.

"Good as new too," Ollivander said, raising an admiring eyebrow in his direction. "However did you manage it?"

Harry wondered if Ollivander had heard about what had happened to the Elder Wand. He weighed the evidence, decided he probably had, and decided that he also didn't really want to go around explaining.

"Oh you know," Harry said, trying to keep his voice offhand, "Hermione Granger is an absolute whiz with looking things up in the Hogwarts Library, the really old stuff. Elder magic and things like that."

"I see," Ollivander said meaningfully. He smiled. "I've just been discussing a very interesting phenomenon with Miss Weasley." He picked up Ginny's wand from the counter and handed it to Harry.

"It's sprouted!" Harry said, astonished.

"Just a little bud," Ginny said, "but I couldn't figure out what to do, clip it off?"

"I've never heard of a wand sprouting," Ollivander said, "does it affect the way that it handles?"

"No," Ginny said, "The balance is still fine."

Ollivander stared at the wand with a pained expression. Like he was trying to figure out how to restrain a wayward child. "Then let us wait for a while. I'll spend some time in research. It might also be fruitful to lay the problem at the feet of the ever-resourceful Miss Granger."

"I already have," Ginny said, laughing a bit, "she said she was straight off to the library. She's probably there now."

"Very useful girl," Ollivander muttered, "I should hire her as an assistant."

Harry and Ginny left the store together, very naturally. Harry liked to consider that it was merely a coincidence.

"I should do a little research in the library myself," Harry told her," I've got a job from Professor—sorry, Headmaster McGonagall this year."

"Really? What are you doing?"

"Well I don't quite know, actually," Harry said," the specifics, at least. I'm going on a kind of goodwill tour around the wizarding world. I'm not very familiar with the lay of the land outside of Hogwarts. It'll be very interesting, I've always had questions about the magical folk, for instance Hagrid, is a half-giant, but I don't know where giants are from. All I've heard about them is that they're a bit dangerous. What about the Veela and the merfolk, I think there are a lot more magical creatures hanging around in Scandinavia than in England." He paused, mostly because he'd run out of breath, but also because he'd suddenly noticed that Ginny had a distant, glazed look in her eyes.

"I'm sorry," Harry said, "Here I am running off about magical creatures. I expect you have enough lecturing in school, you don't need me lecturing you as well."

Ginny smiled at him and laughed," Potter you're such a know it all. You should teach at Hogwarts, you know. In my book, you'll always be our best DADA teacher."

Harry got a funny feeling that shivered up his back. He smiled, and hoped that he wasn't grinning from ear to ear like an idiot, just a respectful, polite yet enthusiastic smile. Then he braced himself and said "thank you. I'll write to you while I'm there," and managed to keep his voice from cracking while he said it too. Five points for Gryffindor.

Ginny laughed at him and trotted off down the street.

Harry decided that this 'skeletal key' thing was too intriguing to pass up, so he went to find Hermione in the library.

* * *

><p>Hogwarts library had always been a bit imposing, in Harry's opinion. Hermione practically lived there, of course. She was always checking out books, poring over them, making notes, flipping through he pages and pausing for a moment to scratch something on a piece of parchment that always seemed to be completely drowned in ridiculously small handwriting. Harry, at the current time, couldn't recollect ever exiting the library with a book in hand. He was too scared to ask. It was a great place to start looking for answers to the questions that garnered those pained, funny looks from the teachers. But it was a horrible place to imagine checking anything out. No question.<p>

Harry made a silent wager with himself that whatever the Skeletal Key was, its book was listed in the Restricted Section.

"Hermione Granger here?" he asked the student who was earning extra credit by working at the front desk. Either that or doing detention for Madame Pince, the hook-nosed librarian who Harry always secretly thought was in love with Filch.

The girl, a Hufflepuff said, "Third aisle in, near the back, in the Restricted Section."

"I'm surprised at her," Harry muttered, tsk-ing and shaking his head," the Restricted Section indeed, practically indecent, her going in there."

The Hufflepuff looked confused; Harry marched off in the direction indicated.

Hermione was reading a book entitled _Exploring the Hidden Treasures of the Caribbean: or Brainwashing with Alcohol, the Tried and True Secret to Opening the Lips of those Sealed by Davy Jones' Locker._

"Not your usual fare, is it?" Harry commented.

Hermione waved him into a chair without looking up.

"I've come to look up Skeletal Keys," Harry said, "Headmaster McGonagall was going to send me one from Beauxbatons. You don't know anything about it, do you?"

Hermione raised her eyes mildly, "No, never heard of it." Then she returned to her reading.

Curiously enough, Harry didn't buy it. Hermione knew everything. Her answer just made him suspicious.

"Fine," Harry said, "I'll just start with _Grafton's Indexe of Magical Artifactes_ and look it up."

Hermione nodded.

Harry got up to go. Then a thought struck him. He stood over Hermione.

"I'm not going to find it, am I," he said.

Hermione closed her book with an air of extreme patience," you might, you never know."

"I'm not going to find it, because you've already tracked it down and it has to do with Pirates," Harry said.

Hermione started sneaking the copy of her book to the side. Harry made a snatch for it.

"Stop it," she hissed," McGonagall gave me the tip where to look. Harry, you're probably better off not knowing."

"Hermione, make sense, will you?"

"It has different powers based on how much the owner knows," Hermione said, "more power if you don't know much about it. That's about all I should say or it won't work at all for you. McGonagall thought I should be familiar with it a bit before we started using it. It's a tricky object."

"How can I be expected to use a magical object if I don't know what it does?" Harry said.

He must have said it very loudly because the Hufflepuff girl came round the corner and politely asked them to use indoor voices. Harry slumped down in a chair next to Hermione and leaned on the desk.

"That can't be the right title," Harry said.

Hermione held up the book. Now the spine said _The Vampire as a Plant: the Art of Defense Against Pumpkin and Other Out-Of-Control Squash._

I think it's ingenious really," Hermione said, "I think I can safely tell you about the book. The text inside changes too. You approach this book with what you want to find out, and while you're reading all this drivel about pirates and booty, suddenly it pops into your head the answer to your question. But Harry, seriously, since I've read this and know about the Skeletal Key, it will never work correctly for me."

"McGonagall cooked this up, didn't she?" Harry grumbled.

"I really shouldn't tell you who is responsible," Hermione said. "I'm not sure how far I can go before I say too much."

"Well that's just brilliant," Harry said.

"McGonagall got it today," Hermione said," she sent me an owl earlier."

"And I suppose that I can't know when the object arrives or where it is either."

"Harry, McGonagall _uses_ these keys, she can't read about it any more than you can or the magic will be broken. She had me come and identify it."

"She doesn't even know what it looks like?" Harry rolled his eyes, "this makes Dumbledore's explanations look precise and detailed. I can't believe this. I suppose we can't know what we're going to do at Beauxbatons and Durmstrang either."

"Oh no," Hermione said, drawing a parchment out of her robes, "Our itinerary at Beauxbatons came today with the Skeletal Key. I've already written my keynote speech. We'll attend several functions and critique some of their best students on their defenses against the Dark Arts. I thought that identifying and breaking an Imperius Curse might be a good place to start—sufficiently difficult and impressive, but not seriously harmful."

Harry was beginning to feel very left out. Hermione gibbered on about demonstrations and ways to grade students based on their thorough knowledge of the subject. Then she started in on suggested study techniques that the students could use to get the most out of their classes. It went on and on.

So the Skeletal Key was a slippery fish. It probably was some combination of an Unplottable Hexed Hypnopneumonical object, but since Harry knowing what it was would cause it not to work, he was going to call it a slippery fish for now. One thing was certain, with Hermione volunteering to write any addresses and speeches that Harry would make during this trip, things would go a lot easier. Anyone could tell that, even without magic.

Harry sat by as Hermione finished her lecture, jotted down a few more notes about the Skeletal Key on that ever-present piece of parchment and stuffed it up her sleeve. Harry would have loved to steal that paper. In fact, if he was a first year, he'd probably have stolen it already. But he wasn't a student anymore.

In fact he was almost too tired of dark objects to care about them anymore. 'Skeletal Key, lead on, follow thou I' was the way he looked at it. They went up to McGonagall's office.

After a few tires, they got the gargoyle to accept 'puking pastilles' as its password (which probably denoted the tenor of the new administration, in Harry's opinion), and wound up the circular stair. The door was open, rocking gently back and forth in the breeze, because the window was open too. McGonagall was nowhere in sight.

Hermione marched in, unperturbed and picked a package gingerly off of McGonagall's desk. Harry eyed her suspiciously.

"Is it going to hurt you?" he asked.

Hermione tossed the package through the air and Harry caught it.

"Probably not," Hermione said, "but better safe than sorry. You open it."

Harry unfolded the scroll. Inside of it was a winged key, bound up tight with twine and struggling to get loose.

"It's the key from the room full of keys. When we went looking for the Philosopher's Stone." He smiled. "I always thought those keys were a bit too easy to get by. It wouldn't work if you knew what it was, right?"

Hermione shrugged. "I really couldn't say."

Harry stuffed the key in his pocket and read the parchment. It was closely written, in neat, loopy characters. Harry wondered if penmanship was a particularly emphasized subject at Beauxbatons.

_Dear Mr. Potter and Miss Granger,_

_We are so delighted to hear that you will be joining us for the Summer Incantation of Health. It is, as you know, on of the highlights of our magical year. We do so wish to get the grapes ripening well. The Californian Imposters have been very active in ensuring that their wine harvest has more depth of taste then ours. I believe that with such accomplished and discerning tastes as yourselves doubtless possess, we may finally be able to land Bordeaux back in the good graces of the Wine Spectator. Suggested topics for presentation to our students: terroir, the counter-cultivation of nematodes, defense against the black art of phylloxera and other American-Cajun Voodoo, oak casks and the allowable enchantments, and canopy management to minimize powdery mildew of course, we're having a very damp year. Fortunately, your visit will also coincide with our annual banquet and wine preview of the Grand Vin of all the best Châteaux. _

_Au Revoir, _

_Madame Maxime_

Harry turned the letter this way and that.

"What is it?" Hermione asked.

"I can't read it," Harry said, "the writing is awful."

"Here, let me see it," Hermione scanned the letter carefully. She pulled out her wand and said "_Magnificato." _The little letters jumped up from the parchment and enlarged as she moved her wand across them. Her lips moved slightly as she read the entire document.

"What's it say?" Harry asked.

"I don't understand this at all," Hermione said, "I've never even heard of nematodes!"

"What are nematodes?"

Hermione gave him a patronizing look. "I said I didn't know."

"Sorry," Harry said.

"It says that we're to take part in their Summer Incantation of Health, and that there's a dinner," Hermione looked up, "Harry do you know anything about wine?"

"No."

There was a muffled hoot from one of the portraits on the wall, a distinctly stifled snigger. Harry looked at the pictures but couldn't see which one was the culprit. Everybody seemed to be blissfully napping, except for Snape, of course, who was doing his best to imitate a non-magical portrait of Lord Nelson or someone similar.

"However," Harry said, "I'm sure it's not all that difficult. We can read up before we go."

"Butterbeer and firewhisky? That's it? Hermione asked.

"Well the Dursley's had wine occasionally," Harry said, "Of course I wasn't allowed to have any."

Hermione groaned. "My parents were dentists. They went on and on about how it could stain your teeth."

"Hermione, about your parents…" Harry began. He stopped when he saw the stricken expression on Hermione's face.

They stared at each other for a few very long moments.

"Don't suppose there will be much about wine in the Hogwarts library," Harry said, "you could order some books from Amazon."

"We don't have time," Hermione said, "McGonagall said that we were scheduled to leave tomorrow." Her eyes flickered towards the Skeletal Key," but I can't tell you why."

There was another loud, semi stifled snort from one of the paintings. Harry was beginning to have his suspicions as to the perpetrator. He had noticed that Snape's face was twitching into a somewhat fierce expression that could only be described as joyful. Harry ignored the blighter. It did occur to him that he might do better to brush up on his potions in the few remaining hours before they set off. If only he'd had his old potions textbook...

Harry shot a glare at the portrait on the wall.

"Well, we'll just be polite, inquisitive," Hermione said, "ask intelligent questions, and be as thorough and clever as we can. We're supposed to be upping Hogwart's enrollment. We must be charming."

"Yeah, well," Harry said, "where's McGonagall? I thought she'd have more instructions for us."

They sat down in two of the green leather armchairs and waited. Hermione took the parchment and was deciphering it, carefully copying it onto another sheet in her own neat characters. Harry couldn't help staring at Snape's picture. It half surprised him that Snape had merited a painting on the wall at all. But headmaster is as headmaster does. Phineas Nigellius Black was up there.

Harry still couldn't bring himself to like the man. In fact, what with the greasy hair and the thin lips that always looked sneering, awful hooked beak and piggy eyes, he thought he had a sneaking suspicion as to why his mother had, ahem, found his father more attractive actually. It was an odd thought, Severus Snape in love with Lily Evans. Snape, who was so clumsy and stupid that he destroyed the very thing he wanted most in the world. It was pathetic, but even so, Harry couldn't bring himself to like the man.

Neither could Phineas Nigellius Black. He was creeping through the edge of Snape's picture with a large white rabbit clutched carefully in one hand. Silently, furtively, he deposited the obese little rabbit in Snape's chair. It sat there chewing its cud pleasantly, making a rather comical background for Admiral Snape. Phineas Nigellius snuck back out of the painting.

Poor Snape, he was so eminently teasable.

There was a flurry of green flame from the fireplace, and a brief struggle with several pairs of broomsticks. McGonagall had finally made her entrance.

"Good day to you," she said, as if she wasn't covered in soot, her cloak wasn't torn in several places and the brooms she was gripping fiercely in one hand weren't trying to get away. "I see you've received the letter from Beauxbatons. And the key? Were you careful to follow my instructions," she looked pointedly over at Hermione.

"Yes," Hermione said, "I read all about it in the library. Harry knows nothing."

"Well, do not experiment with the key on your own, Miss Granger. It has powers that most people have only guessed at and I would distinctly wish for you to make the journey in one piece."

"How did Professor Quirrel get past these keys before?" Harry asked, before he could stop himself. "He must have known what they were. He'd gotten through them before me and had bent the wing of the right one."

McGonagall and Hermione traded looks.

"I think you understand that it's best you don't know." McGonagall said. "When you've finished using the key, feel free to study it all you like. For now thought, you must simply trust."

"It's not even that interesting," Hermione said.

Harry felt like gnashing his teeth.

"Are you ready to set off tomorrow?" McGonagall asked.

Tomorrow was a lot sooner than Harry had imagined. But it seemed all right to him. Kreacher could handle everything back at Grimmaud place. It just felt rather sudden, and he really didn't know what he'd be doing on this trip at all. It was one thing to talk about giving lectures and attending banquets, it was another thing to be faced with the necessity of preparing your speech and worrying which fork was for the salad.

"You will have a guide for the first portion of your journey, because as you know Beauxbatons is unplottable." McGonagall said. "And a guard."

"Why do we need a guard?" Harry asked, bristling. The war was over, and Harry wanted to feel like it would stay that way.

"Because Potter," McGonagall said, drawing herself to her full height, "you did not do what I told you and you spoke to the muggle Prime Minster about that court case of theirs. You're under subpoena. He may not like it if you leave the country."

"I can always come back," Harry argued, "Right?"

"This is a very serious matter," McGonagall said, "You could be imprisoned, and the magical communities in France and England haven't exactly rescinded their non-extradition policy that was set in place during the Hundred Years War. The French may want to try you separately."

A cold chill began creeping up Harry's spine. He shouldn't have to explain that night in the cafe. He had witnesses, Ron and Hermione. They could prove that they'd left before anything bad had happened. This whole trial smacked of something more sinister, like officially ending the war by blaming the war criminals.

"I have _persuaded,"_ McGonagall said, "someone to look after you while you're gone, and be sure that you come _back_ when it's over. Not to worry, you'll only be aware of your guides to each of the schools in question."

McGonagall lost control of one of the struggling brooms, made a quick dive for it, carried the whole lot over to an armchair and sat on them.

"What are those for?" Hermione asked.

"Well when you travel to an unplottable place," McGonagall said simply, "you need an uncontrollable broom."

The brooms made another go at freedom. McGonagall squashed them down again. It didn't look pleasant.

"You should take it easy," Harry said, "You look awfully worn down."

"I was hexed by a Dishevelment Charm last week," McGonagall said ruefully, "I still haven't found out the cure. My best suspicion is that it came in a box of toffee that I assumed at the time to come from Professor Sprout. Some Weasley concoction, no doubt. That lot will come to no good," she continued, looking straight at Hermione, "I'd watch my step around them. Flighty. Un-serious."

Hermione said nothing.

After a little more chit chat on the last sets of OWLs (dreadful), the prospects of the economy (also dreadful) and the terrible state of the world when innocent birthday gifts are Weasley products in disguise (Harry wished her a happy birthday), McGonagall finally sent them off and told them to meet up at the Leaky Cauldron at ten sharp the next morning.

"And be prepared," McGonagall said, "I think you'll have a bit of persuading to do."


	5. Ronald's Engagement

Ron Weasley was sitting in Harry's living room when he got back to Grimmaud Place.

"Did you know Professor McGonagall's been hexed by one of George's Tousled Toffees?" Harry opened, rather hotly, "She looks a wreck. We can't have the Headmaster of Hogwarts look like a ragamuffin if we're supposed to get more students to come!"

Ron gave Harry a bit of a blank, dull look. No surprise to Harry, he'd seen that look often.

"You don't have an antidote, do you?" Harry asked, "she's been like this for a week! Still can't figure out how to undo it."

"Antidote?" Ron said, "Well...it should wear off eventually. What I came about is Hermione, see..."

"Eventually? That sounds great. I think you should make George to send the Hogwarts teachers at least some guidelines on how to avoid these things. It's getting ridiculous."

"Come off it, you sound just like Percy. I don't know if George comes up with any antidotes, actually. I'm just doing his accounting. He's the inventor."

Harry sighed, tossed the Skeletal Key and a tightly bound package of wiggling broomsticks down on the hall table. He didn't want to think about the scolding he'd get from Kreacher for littering in the Black Family House.

"Hermione," Ron said, "I'm glad she's going."

"Me too."

"Well, what I mean to say is, can you keep an eye on her for me?"

Harry looked up. "Oh not again Ron! Hermione is perfectly capable of keeping an eye on herself, the war is over, no one is in danger, we're expanding our magical community in peace and in quiet, what could possibly happen?"

"Well the first thing I thought of, after I left of course, was that loathsome Viktor Krum, actually," Ron said.

"I thought he was still seeker for the Bulgarian team," Harry said, "they should be halfway through the season by now, probably playing against Iceland or Transylvania. Don't worry, Ron." He sounded a bit impatient as he said it. He could tell that he sounded impatient. But really, this was a brilliant bit of unnecessary worry. Hermione had been head over heels for Ron since their third year, or even before that, Harry couldn't tell.

Ron wasn't much comforted by the fact that Krum was possibly tied up with Quidditch. "There could be others," he said.

"I solemnly swear that I'll keep Hermione out of the clutches of any evil madman who wishes to sweep her off her feet and fly to their castle in a mad elopement," Harry said, raising his right hand.

Ron laughed. "No I'm serious. We're engaged."

"What! When did this happen!"

Ron gave Harry that blank look again, "but you were there. That night after your housewarming party."

Harry thought back to that particular embarrassing conversation. "No you're not."

"Yes I am."

"You never asked her."

"Well? I meant it."

Harry sighed, "girls are a bit particular about things like that. You have to ask straight out. And where's your ring?"

"And how did you become such the expert?" Ron shot back.

"I'm not an expert, everyone knows these things," Harry said, trying not to think about Ginny and trying even harder not to go beet red. "You've got to go off and really _ask. _And I think it'll go better if I'm not in the room next time, ok?"

"I'm not engaged?" Ron said weakly.

"Gosh Ron, just go and ask her." Harry said, "It's been years and years."

Ron said nothing. He looked deeply shaken. Harry couldn't understand it. After everything that Ron and Hermione risked together during the war, Harry could see a bond growing between them by the hour. Harry sank back on the couch.

"Are you having dinner with me tonight?" Harry asked, burying his face in his hands and peeking wearily out through his fingers.

Ron brightened considerably at the mention of food. "Uh, yeah, thanks."

* * *

><p>Harry didn't tell Ron that he was scheduled to begin his trip tomorrow. It was difficult enough to get out without Kreacher knowing, if Ron knew, that meant that Ginny knew, and if Ginny knew that meant Mrs. Weasley knew, and if Mrs. Weasley knew...well, he'd be lucky to escape alive, that's all he could say. Beauxbatons Academy! He'd have to swear to take lots of pictures (and he didn't even own a camera), and he'd have to bring back souvenirs for <em>everybody <em>and he'd probably have to write letters every day commenting on the local magical communities, the foreign culture, the outrageous French food.

So the next morning, Harry got up, brushed his teeth, didn't bother combing his hair, put on a traveling robe, stuffed a pair of underwear in one pocket and a pair of socks in the other, tiptoed downstairs and seized his uncontrollable broom and Skeletal Key, and he was off.

It was early, very early, and the streets were nearly empty of muggles anyways. The Leaky Cauldron wasn't far off, so Harry just hopped the Metro, smiled at the man in a suit next to him who stopped reading his newspaper to scowl disapprovingly at him, and landed at the doorstep in plenty of time to get a nice cup of tea before he started out.

Tom yawned from behind the counter when he saw Harry enter and kept polishing up the wooden bar top. He must have just opened. Harry ordered his tea and sat down in a dark corner to wait for Hermione and their mysterious guide that McGonagall had said needed a bit of convincing. Harry already had his suspicions.

A few customers filtered in as Harry sipped his tea. A family with two small children walked over from Diagon Alley to procure some breakfast crumpets. They ate for ten minutes and then left again. An old man walked in off the muggle street to order, he wasn't dressed as a wizard and was carrying a muggle paper, but Tom greeted him like a regular and handed him a steaming hot cup of coffee. Harry watched and waited. He waited almost half an hour.

People filtered in, people filtered out. But on the whole, the Leaky Cauldron was getting more crowded as time went on. It'd probably be time for morning rush any moment now.

Hermione made it at a quarter till eight. She was carrying two uncontrollable brooms, and she was laughing and chatting with Hagrid.

Harry smiled. Of course.

One look at Hagrid's face was enough to tell him that his friend had no idea what was in store for him today.

"Ooh, care for a cup of tea?" Hermione asked him. "It smells lovely in here. Glad I ran into you on the street, I was just about to go looking for you. I think these brooms may be alive somehow." She crunched the bound brooms tighter under her arm, "Oh look," she said coolly, "there's Harry Potter. Don't mind if we sit with you do you Harry?"

"Harry!" Hagrid said, quite loudly. "Wha' are ye' doin' here? Shoppin' fer yer new house?" He crashed his ten-foot frame into a chair and pulled it up to the table.

Hermione seemed to be laying it on a bit thickly in Harry's opinion.

"Well no actually," Harry said, "I was just about to be off on holiday. Got a bit of something that Headmaster McGonagall asked me to do."

"Holiday?"

"Well actually I've been invited to do some lectures for students," Harry said, "Hermione's been lending me some of her uncontrollable brooms." He said, fishing for a way to explain the fact that he also had a struggling broomstick.

"Uncontrollable brooms, eh?" Hagrid picked up Harry's tightly wrapped package, "'oi, wel' I've heard abou' these and the like. Yeh jest ha' to treat 'em righ' an' they'll take you where er' yeh wan' to go. Even if it's guarded like, or unplottable. It'l ge' you in or out. Not suppos' teh have them aroun' Azkaban, tha's fer sure." He turned the wriggling broom upside down and scratched its bristles with his knuckles.

Harry wasn't sure what was supposed to happen at this juncture, but the broom did not cease struggling at all. In fact, it may have been wriggling around more.

"Hagrid," Hermione began in a syrupy, soupy voice. "You do know an awful lot."

Harry tried to refrain from rolling his eyes. The point, as he could see it, was that Hagrid had claimed to _somewhat_ know where Beauxbatons was. The whole episode seemed very fishy. Since Beauxbatons had invited Harry to come on a lecture tour and sent him that mysterious Skeletal Key, he'd assumed that they'd sort of, well, _give him directions._ McGonagall had mentioned guides and guards, and Harry was distinctly getting the feeling that this was shaping up to be more of an adventure than he'd like to think.

Hagrid blushed a bit at Hermione's undisguised flattery. "So Harry, where yeh off on 'oliday to? It's abou' time yeh took a breather."

"Well, I _think_," Harry said, "that I'm going to Bordeaux."

"Bor-do _France?" _Hagrid said in disbelief, "bu' they'll hang yeh as soon as let yeh in, didn' yeh know?"

"Ah," Harry said, "well, you see Professor McGonagall conveniently forgot to mention that."

"Bor-do..." Hagrid said again, scratching his beard. Something that looked like a chicken bone fell out of it and landed on Hermione's lap. "Unless Beauxbatons is givin' yeh sanctuary, I'd say yeh don' have much of a chance. Don' yeh even read the papers Harry?"

In truth, Harry had stopped reading the Daily Prophet in January. This coincided exactly with the day that Rita Skeeter was made Managing Editor, and in Harry's opinion, the Prophet's journalistic standards, never very high, had distinctly gone into the toilet ever since.

"Well," Hagrid said, seeing the resigned looking on Harry's face, "I don' suppose yeh speak French either. How'r yeh supposed to know if yeh can' understand the lingo?"

"The French papers are writing about Harry?" Hermione asked.

Hagrid gave her an uncomfortable look, "not sure I should ha' tol' yeh that."

"Hagrid," Hermione asked, "is Harry in danger?"

"No' danger like, jes', well, it's a bit uncomfortable abroad these days." Hagrid said, "maybe yeh should go on holiday in Scotland I heard tha' there's a dragon tha's popped out of the loch again and they're havin' a great time tryin' ta ge' it back."

"Why don't you come with me," Harry countered.

Hermione looked nervous. Harry wondered if he'd sprung the trap a bit too soon.

"Oh no, I couldn'," Hagrid said.

And then something very very strange happened. As he stared at Hagrid's face a thought formed in his head. It wasn't like a pensieve, it wasn't a memory, but he could _see_ Hagrid thinking very carefully about something. In a flash, Harry knew exactly what to say.

"Besides," he said, "I was going to visit Madame Maxime. Her manticore has just had kittens."

Harry knew that this would be a tempting piece of information for Hagrid in any case. How Harry knew it was true was another matter. Anything that had three rows of fangs and shot poisonous stingers while breathing fire and flying was right up his alley. He didn't expect Hagrid's black eyes to fill with tears, which is just what they did, splashing great muddy drops down his beard to pool on the table.

Hermione put a hand on his arm and shot Harry a glare. "It's all right," she said, "I'm sure Harry won't be in any danger in France. We've been able to take care of ourselves before."

Hagrid did not respond. He just sat there like he'd been petrified, staring off into the distance with a not-unpleasant look on his face as his eyes streamed tears like a fountain.

Harry was beginning to get worried when someone walked up behind him and put a hand on his shoulder.

"Good morning all," said a cheery voice.

Harry spun around quickly and was shocked to see the Muggle Prime Minister staring knowingly at Hagrid.

"Had a scone yet? I'm famished," the Prime Minister said. "We should be starting any moment now." He nodded over at Tom the Barman and in an instant a tray of breakfast sweets floated over to the table and plunked down heartily in the center of it.

Hagrid seemed to rouse a bit from his trance. He looked at the scones for a second, swiped out a big paw, grabbed three without noticing and began munching and scattering crumbs everywhere.

The Prime Minister brushed off one shoulder of his coat. "I must say I'm disappointed to see that you feel the need to move so quickly. However, I'm sure we won't get to your part of the investigation for a few weeks. But look out for my owl, you may need to come back any day."

"I am still happy to provide the law with whatever information they need to bring about justice," Harry said, a trifle crossly. "And you needn't have come to lecture me on skipping bail."?

"Skipping bail? Good gracious I hope it doesn't come to that. I've got to go along for the first bit of the ride," the Prime Minister said, taking a small pink scone off the tray, "customs."

"It's customary for the _prime minister_ to accompany every wizard who wishes to visit a foreign country?" Harry asked suspiciously.

"No Harry," Hermione said, "_Customs_. Where they check your passport and things."

"I don't expect you've got a passport, do you?" the Prime Minister asked.

Harry had never heard of a passport. The Dursleys never traveled. If they had, they wouldn't have taken Harry; they'd have locked him in his room with a pitcher of water and a bag of dry dog food. Perhaps even left a litterbox if they had been feeling particularly genial.

"Customs?" Harry said, rather more for something to say than because he understood any better.

"Quite," the Prime Minister said, "look, just leave everything to me and you'll be in Beauxbatons in short order. But," his voice dropped to a whisper and he looked conspiratorially around, "don't let on to Chirac that I had anything to do with it."

"You're not a wizard are you?" asked Hermione.

"Course not, course not." the Prime Minister said, "but you know politics. Have to be all things to all people, you know."

"Well then how will you be coming with us when we're going to ride brooms?"

"Oh, I'll ride with Hagrid," he said, "should be room for us both."

Hagrid roused a bit to look down at the Prime Minister.

"Oy ey," he said, his face clear from its dreamy look now, "Erm. Righ' then. I wouln'a try _importin_' a manticore kitten. I'd jes' wan' a look a' one."

Harry had the distinct impression that Hagrid was more likely to move to France to be closer to the manticore's owner, but he did not voice his opinion. It was that same feeling again, like he was looking through Hagrid's forehead, only know the view was all rosy colored and misty.

"Well then," the Prime Minister said, stuffing a last scone down the hatch. "Off we go. Better try those brooms out somewhere we won't attract too much attention."


	6. Bienvenue au France

Chapter 6

The four of them scooted out into Diagon Alley. Harry thought that they must all look very suspicious. The Muggle Prime Minister looked very much at ease with himself, and led the way down past the shops into the entrance of Nocturn Alley. Harry watched him wave to passers by who were staring at his muggle clothing, pose for a picture that a first year's family was taking, and kiss someone's baby. Harry wondered if this man was Gilderoy Lockart's twin brother. The Prime Minister gestured them all into Nocturn Alley and led the way down the twisting corridors that Harry didn't even know by heart.

Eventually, Harry had to ask the obvious question.

"Well, wouldn't you know," the Prime Minister said, "I discovered a few things about the Prime Minister's House that I'm almost certain my predecessor was not aware of. For one thing, you go out a back door into Knockturn Alley surprisingly enough. Makes it awfully handy, you should have seen Kingsley's face when I came and gave_ him_ a surprise visit for a change. Here we are."

They had arrived in a little courtyard jammed in between the grimy stone buildings. It was an empty lot, with a few scrawny weeds daring to grow in the uncobbled areas and ancient dead ivy covering the walls.

"I jus' remembered," Hagrid said, "I'l ha' to tell McGonagall befor' I go."

"Oh she already knows," Hermione said, seizing Hagrid's hand. "We need you to get in. Professor Grubby-Plank was only too happy to fill in for your class."

"Well tha's kinda wha' I'm afraid of," Hagrid protested. Hermione dragged him forward.

"Unwrap the brooms Harry," she told him.

Harry looked doubtfully at his struggling package. "I thought Hagrid was too big to ride a broom," he said.

"Oh wel'," Hagrid said, "we won' be ridin' 'em exactly see." He took the package from Harry with one plate-sized hand and started to untie it. "These brooms are fer sweepin'. Yeh jes' have teh be nice te 'em, they come roun'."

Once free, the package of brooms began thrashing in earnest. The bristles snapped and writhed, whirling around, trying to grab hold of anything. Hagrid held one by the end rather gingerly. It appeared to be trying to latch onto his ankle. The Prime Minister, unperturbed, bent down and took, hold of Hagrid's great gopher coat, holding the end like he was holding a princess's train.

"Anytime your ready," he said, then turned to Harry, "always very exciting this bit." The Prime Minister gave a little nod.

"Got tha' Skeletal Key now?" Hagrid asked, over the din of brushes and switches.

Harry held it up. He grabbed the other broom, and Hermione grabbed hers.

A stooped looking old witch wandered past them, bent low over a bubbling cauldron. She stopped, re-perched her spectacles on her hooked nose and eyed them suspiciously.

"Good morning, madam," the Prime Minister said, bowing daintily.

The witch shook her shawl like she was brushing off a bee and bumbled off. Harry thought he heard her muttering terrible imprecations of doom.

"Now what do we do?" Harry asked.

"Sweep!" Hagrid said. And then he counted to three and they started.

Absolutely nothing happened for a while. Brush brush, they went over the ground. Harry gathered some pebbles in a neat little pile. Hermione was trying to bend over some weeds. Hagrid, who didn't look like he was much accustomed to tidying up either by hand or by magic, flailed at the broom. But then the writhing began to lessen, and Harry began to feel the broom harden in his hand, become more manageable.

"Jus' about time," Hagrid said, "hold on when i' happens."

Harry was about to ask about what exactly was going to happen, when the broom sped off into...something. It wasn't the sky, it wasn't the ground. It wasn't anywhere in particular. The world spun, coalesced, and then resolved into and Italian Restaurant.

"Keep sweepin'" Hagrid yelled, "an' be polite."

Harry nearly let go of his broom, he was so shocked. A waiter dropped a couple of menus on the floor.

"So sorry 'bout tha'," Hagrid said, with an ingratiating smile, "we won' be long."

Harry gave the couple sitting at the table beside him a sheepish grin. He swept some noodles into a neat little pile. Then it happened again and they were off and then back again.

Bang.

The Prime Minister let go of Hagrid's coat and dusted off his sleeves. "Always exhilarating, never know where you end up first. They've never been able to quite work the bugs out of uncontrollable brooms."

They had arrived in front of a dingy little shack perched on a cliff by the sea. It was grey and salt stained and creaked in the breeze. The road in front of it was muddy and had big ruts in it from cart wheels. Harry noticed that there were quite a lot of hoof prints in the mud.

"Uncontrollable magic, see," Hagrid said, "yeh can never quite predict i'."

"Oh yes, quite," the Prime Minister said, as if remembering something important.

Hermione squeaked as the broom began thrashing again. Harry quickly helped her tie it down.

"I don't remember anything good being said about uncontrollable magic," she said, giving the brooms a distasteful look. "That was a serious breach of the International Magical Secrecy Act back there. We were seen by an entire restaurant full of muggles! The Ministry of Magic will be after our heads for that."

Her hair was rumpled and frizzy, her face was streaked with dirt, and she looked like she was about to cry.

"Oh surely not," the Prime Minster said, giving Hermione a friendly pat on the shoulder, "Muggles aren't that delicate, you know. They'll survive the shock."

Harry thought that Hermione looked like she could use a hug, a listening ear and a cup of tea. Hermione gave the Prime Minister a look full of daggers.

"Well," he said, "let's get on with it then."

He walked up to the door and pushed the doorbell. Hagrid looked startled when it caused a chiming noise inside. He bent down for a closer look.

The door opened to reveal a short, swarthy official who was very hairy and smelled like onions and wine.

"Entre," he said, and rather sounded like he resented saying it.

The Prime Minister tipped his hat at him, said 'ta' and marched inside, dragging everyone else along with him. The interior of the shack wasn't much better than the exterior. The official closed the door and walked back to his desk in the corner, giving everyone a wide berth as he did so, and the look on his face suggested that he might have thought they all had lice.

"Passeport," he said, "sil vous plait."

"That's the key," the Prime Minister whispered to Harry.

Harry fumbled in his pocket and drew out the little winged key. He'd kept it tied up with twine to this point. He handed it over to the official who turned it to and fro. He looked at the key, then he raised his eyes to Harry's face, then he looked at the key again. The expression on his face ranged through more levels of disgust and derision than Harry thought he'd ever seen before in his life. Then the official tossed the key down again.

"Eet is not een order," he said with a little snort, "Eenglish."

"Ah," said the Prime Minister. "I thought not. That's why I wanted to be perfectly sure that it's checked properly." he reached in his coat, "I think you'll find this document motivating."

The official had half turned away towards the wall during the time that the Prime Minister had been speaking. Upon having a piece of parchment thrust under his nose, he jerked a little, sneezed gently, and with an overly dramatic eye roll read the paper. He cast it to the desk in exactly the same manner that he'd discarded the Skeletal Key.

"Eet is no use," he said simply, "no one can verify your story. Zey are all on zstrike today."

"They're always on strike," Hermione whispered in Harry's ear.

Harry leaned a bit closer to her.

"My parents and I would go on holiday in France," she said, "It's a beautiful place, but it's so dreadfully difficult to get into. He probably wants a bribe." She nodded at the official, who was rubbing his fingers together on the bottom of the document and staring at the Prime Minister down his long nose.

The Prime Minister folded his arms crossly, "I'll have words with your superior for this, my good little man."

"Ee is also on zstrike."

"And I'll raise the excise taxes on wines imported to England."

The official's left nostril gave a convulsive shudder. "Bienvenue a France," he said. He took the Skeletal Key, tied a little red ribbon around it's nose and handed it back to Harry.

"Mercy," Harry said.

The official gave him a withering glare.

"_Merci," _Hermione said softly.

"Well," the Prime Minister said, "I'll leave you too it then. Just be able to catch the 9:30 chunnel I imagine. Won't the security chaps be surprised when they find out I've snuck out from under their noses. But, as the French say, que sera sera. Oh and that reminds me," he turned to Harry and gave him a toothy grin. "Remember, you can't bury yourself in the wizarding world all your life. Muggles have made some fabulous contributions to civilization too. That Skeletal Key, for instance, marvelous muggle-made object, to say nothing of muggle poetry. Get into the spirit of things while you're here and read some Victor Hugo. I'll be in touch in case we need you to testify earlier than expected. You may await my owl." Then he straightened his lapels, spun on his heels and opened the door. With a jaunty 'au revoir', he was gone.

"Zwine eenglish," said the official.

* * *

><p>"He shouldn't have told you it was muggle-made," Hermione fumed, "I'll have to think about what complications that causes. Oh, honestly, can't anyone think clearly around here?"<p>

She pushed by Hagrid, who was trying to bargain a bus ticket out of a man who possibly came up as far as his knee. The man was obviously a muggle, and equally obviously too proud to notice that Hagrid was rather a strange personage. Hermione elbowed Hagrid out of the way and fired off a line in French.

In a few seconds, the man had quailed before the hyrda, so to say, and they were off trundling along the countryside in a dilapidated van whose occupants made the Knight Bus' look ordinary.

A woman was bundled up knee-to-knee with Harry, a crate of flapping chickens on her lap and a slate glazed look in her eyes. Hagrid was eyeing the chickens with a rapacious look. Harry thought he looked suspiciously hungry and wondered if Hagrid was planning on eating the chicken raw. If his memory served him correctly they called that '_Tartare_' here. Hermione was at his side, gazing out the window as they went along.

"Just out of curiosity," Harry asked meekly, "where are we going?"

"To Beauxbatons, well, first to the French Ministry," Hermione said, "as it happens, I've been there before."

This was news to Harry.

"I didn't realize it until this morning," Hermione said, "It's something to do with the Skeletal Key. But all of the sudden, I remembered being in the South of France with my parents, touring the counrtyside, when we stopped at a little chateaux to taste the wine. At the time, I'm sure I didn't see through the confundus charms and invisibility charms, but now when I think back on the memory I can clearly see a sign that says, 'Office of Magical Regulations'...in French of course."

The Skeletal Key. Harry thought about it for a moment and said, "So the Skeletal Key sharpens intangible things so you can remember them?"

Hermione gave him a dangerous, surprised look. "Do not guess Harry. Don't even think about it. It's far too important for you to go around losing the power now. Just think, if it hadn't been for your ignorance, I'd have never known where to buy bus tickets for and we'd be lost in Chalet for ages and it looks like Hagrid is getting ready to eat a suckling pig or a roast yak anytime now, and _think_ of all the international secrecy treaties _that_ would violate."

"I didn't know they talked about that kind of thing in _Hogwarts, a history."_

"There's an entire chapter devoted to all the things that Harry James Potter doesn't know.. And let's keep it that way for the Skeletal Key, shall we? You'll thank me later."

"Brilliant."

They trundled, they jounced. The chickens flapped, and Harry's eyelids started drooping. Just as he fell asleep, he thought he saw a black batlike shadow trailing the ground under the van. A wraithlike puff of inky smoke among the dappled shadows of the passing leaves and branches.


	7. Umbrage in Different Flavors

CHAPTER 7

The chateau that Hermione had talked about was nearly as impressive as Hogwarts. They'd driven through miles and miles of rock walls and chalky grape vines, up little hills and down to ford an occasional stream. The grounds proper of the chateaux were immense. Harry thought they must have employed an army of gardeners, even magical gardeners, to keep all the roses blooming and the daisys bobbing up and down in great sheets, the tulips that lined the walkways. The chateau was large, with many barns and buildings, all made of field stone, and built to last through anything, revolution, famine, laws prohibiting the consumption of alcohol during working hours, anything. Hermione's memory had served her remarkably well, for after they'd been dropped off on the immaculate cobblestones in front of the tasting room, she led the way through a couple of sheds and past a cow, and there was the door and the sign **'Le Bureau Reglement de la Sorcellerie'. **

"I've got that letter that the Prime Minister left with us," Harry said, "If you can translate for me..."

"I don't speak French _well," _Hermione said, "It's always been frustrating to me that there isn't a language spell. I think it's better off if you try to use _legilimens_ on them."

"I was terrible at legilimency and occlumency."

"And Snape worked so hard on you." Hermione said with a sniff, "surely you learned _something_ from, well if not Snape, Voldemort at least."

"'Eh? What's all this abou' speakin' French?" Hagrid asked, coming up behind them.

He was chewing on something crunchy, and Harry was afraid to ask what.

"I spea' French," Hargid said. "On yeh go now. Ladies firs'." He opened the door with one slightly greasy hand.

Hermione nodded to him graciously.

Inside the Office of Magical Regulations was tidily swept and very clean. There was one solitary desk, manned by one solitary woman. Hagrid took some time fitting himself through the doorway, and this attracted her attention. She got up from her desk, pursed her lips, and moved over to her counter, but didn't say anything.

Harry didn't know if it was a trick of the sunlight, but she reminded him very much of someone. Was it Professor Trelawney? Not quite, although she was tall, thin, a bit haggard and had a dreamy, satisfied air about her. Satisfied, that was it. Excessively satisfied. Every pin in the room was in place, and she was...

"Welcome to France, Harry Potter," she said in a distinct Newport accent, "my sister over at your ministry informed me of your coming. I trust your visit will show our region at it's best. The weather intends to be sultry and pleasant."

"Thanks," Harry said, a little dazed. Who was it?

"I'm sure that while you're here," she said, "we'll all become very good friends. It's so much smaller in France, so much more quaint, everyone knows everyone else."

But Harry's mind had stopped at the 'very good friends'. Toad face. It couldn't be. But the resemblance was there, a flick of the hand, the nervous cast to the eyes, the ironclad simper.

"I'm Phleuris Umbridge-Fortescue-Smythe," she said, "We can take my car to Beauxbatons Academy." she gave Hagrid a dubious glance, "I believe the interior extension charm should suffice. "I'll just send a quick owl to let them know that we're coming. And get the doggies."

Hermione's eyebrows shot skyward at the word 'doggies'. Harry wondered where Crookshanks was, now that he mentioned it. Probably in Australia with everything else that Hermione cared about. Phleuris Umbrige-Fortescue-Smythe returned after a moment with a toy chihuahua with a purple bow around it's neck. It's head poked up from her purse with large, doe eyes. Hagrid reached out to pet him and it bit his finger.

Phleuris' car was unlike anything Harry had ever seen before, either in the wizarding world or the muggle world, this age or that which was to come etc. It defied reality, expectations and gravity all in one go.

It was purple, for one thing. It had three wheels instead of four, and despite this shortcoming, it had a neat little purple truck bed in the back. Phleuris offered it to Hagrid.

Hermione and Harry squeezed inside the cab, which, if it had an extension charm on it, Harry thought it a pretty poorly executed one. Hagrid held the uncontrollable brooms and sat in the back with his feet scuffing the dirt as they bounced along.

"It's only a few kilometers," Fleuris told them. "I'm so excited to hear from people across the channel, so to say. You have had a busy year, what with all that rebellion of the muggles and dark wizards. I expect it must have been very difficult."

"Most difficult," Hermione said, patronizingly.

Phleuris gave her a brief, sizing-up look, appeared to cast the comment aside and continued as chattily as before.

"My sister, Dolores (don't know if you've heard of her, she works for the government over there), wrote to me that it was all out war. Of course I can't expect her to give me a fair and unbiased report, so to say, but it did look pretty bleak for a while. Nothing like that _ever_ happens in the country, we are so dull really,but I expect it's how we like to be."

"Oh I simply can't stand dullness," Hermione said, "give me the frenetic pace of the war-torn city any day of the week."

Harry thought it best not to interject his opinion into this enlightening discussion. Phleuris sniffed a bit at Hermione.

"Well you don't look like you've seen too much excitement, dear," she said. "You're hardly wearing the latest fashions in robes."

"Yes I know," Hermione said, leaning forward with a simper equally as appalling as Phleuris' was, "I didn't want to offend the country folk when I knew that they probably couldn't afford nice clothes."

Harry was beginning to think that Hagrid looked lonely out there in the back and could probably use some company. Phleuris was beginning to look confused, so she stopped talking and they drove in blessed silence.

Bounce bounce bounce. Hadn't they heard about cement in France? Harry wondered.

"Here we are," Phleuris announced, as they pulled up to a pair of automatic wrought iron gates, "the finest palace in Bordeaux. You'll not see the like even in Hogwarts. Welcome to the best society life in France."

Hermione did not reply. Phleuris looked disappointed that she hadn't provoked another barbed exchange.

Harry looked out the window. He couldn't see any palace. All he could see were acres and acres of green plants. They were unlike any plant that he'd ever seen. Certainly he'd never seen anything like this in Britain. They all had leafless sapling trunks about as high as a man's waist, and they had arms reaching out and holding the next plant's hand for miles and miles in straight rows. The leaves were dazzlingly green, glowing with the sun. The sun never seemed to shine this brightly in Britain either.

"That's a muggle gate, isn't it?" Hermione asked innocently, as the gate in question swung closed behind them.

Phleuris gave her an infinitely superior look, as if she'd finally trapped Hermione at her own game. "Of course," Phleuris said, "we have muggles to do our work for us here."

"Have you heard of the Society for the Protection of Elfish Welfare?" Harry asked.

Phleuris might have actually forgotten that Harry was in the car. She stared at him with a blank look. "No."

"Well, it's a brilliant organization," Harry said, "SPEW, we call it. It's fosters human elfish understanding and goodwill."

"Oh." Phleuris said.

"You should join," Harry said, thinking frantically, "I've got one of our banner pins in my pocket right now I think." He rummaged.

"That's all right," Phleuris said, "I expect that you'll want to rest up a bit after your journey. You can find the pin at your leisure."

Hermione still seemed to be on the verge of boiling over, she gave the chihuahua a dark look and it barked in alarm. The purple truck seemed to be inching its way along the road. For the first time, Harry began to wonder what it was that he'd gotten himself into. Here he was, riding in a car with Dolores Umbridge's sister! Well he couldn't actually have refused to ride with her because she'd got a rotten sister, but he'd have liked to. What other kinds of witches and wizards might he meet and have to put up with simply because McGonagall didn't feel like there were enough paying students attending Hogwarts this year.

When he thought of Hogwarts, his mind quieted. He owed it to his school. After all, Hogwarts had done so much for him.

The truck left the dirt path and turned onto white crushed gravel. Instead of green plants, this road was lined on both sides with huge trees. Then they passed through the bubble and were inside.

In front of him, shimmering out of nothing, appeared a wide expanse of white marble palace, tall but flat and boxy, with regular windows covering every inch of available space. The drive had widened enough that a troupe of cavalry officers could have ridden down it, twenty abreast. The little purple truck rattled along under the trees. Acres and acres of pristinely manicured gardens stretched before Harry's eyes. Hedges and roses, lawns fountains, statues. All of it carved and white, gleaming in the sun. He shaded his eyes. Even Hermione looked impressed.

As they pulled under the columned balcony that shaded the front entrance, Madame Maxime came trotting out to meet them. She was wearing a light, frilly frock and sun hat. It looked odd on a woman as big as she was, and that's probably why Harry noticed it. Hagrid, on the other hand, did not need any promptings to notice.

He jumped up from the purple truck, which creaked in extreme relief, and bounded over to Madame Maxime, trailing clouds of dust that he'd picked up on the drive.

"Olympe," he said, "I've nev'r seen yeh loo' bet'r. Ah i's good ter be ba' at Bow-Batons again. Place hasn' changed a bi'."

"Ooh 'Agrid," Madame Maxime, "You too look laik zee joie de vivre itself. You flattair me."

Harry thought that trying to switch listening from one accent to the other with this pair might drive him mad. Madame Maxime greeted them warmly, waved her wand with a little flourish and conjured several flying carpets.

"Zeez will take you to your rooms," she said, "once you 'ave 'ad a chance to refresh yourself, come to my zuite for zome apertifs and a tour before dinner."

Hermione was staring at the flying carpets with her mouth agape. "But those are illegal!" she blurted out, too shocked to be polite. "Those were banned from Britain nearly twenty years ago after that terrible wreck where the infant fell-"

"from Britain," Madame Maxime said with a smile, "but not from France. Enjoy! Ze are very fun to ride."

Harry reached out to pet the nearest carpet. "I think they'll do nicely. Thanks so much, I assume that they know where to go?"

"Of course."

Hermione still looked a bit rebellious. Harry hopped on the carpet, and wound up splayed on his stomach floating in midair. The carpet wobbled a bit, almost like a water bed but a bit airier. He grasped the fringed edge with white knuckles.

"very good!" Madame Maxime said, "now zay 'en avant' to go and 'arreter' to ztop. I'm afraid zey onlie speak French."

"En avant and arreter, I'll manage," Harry said, but the moment the words left his mouth he was off and racing through the palace at breakneck speed.


	8. Visitations

CHAPTER 8

He soared along the ceiling, dodging crystal chandeliers and gliding across the patches of sunlight. Below him, he saw students marching to and fro in their blue uniforms. How very like Hogwarts they looked! grouped together in twos and threes, scampering from class to class. No one seemed to take more than a passing glance at the flying carpet. In fact, a carpet going the other way zoomed by Harry and nearly knocked him off in its slipstream.

Harry turned his attention to the building itself. He really couldn't compare it to Hogwarts. Certainly it was equally as large, but instead of familiar stone walls, these walls were immaculate white plaster, instead of suits of armor there were white marble sculptures of the pantheon of Grecian and Roman gods and goddesses. Everything seemed to be gilded with gold, mirrored, sunlit, or ornately carved. It made Hogwarts look utilitarian and spare. The carpet bucked, and took a right turn, zoomed up a staircase (bumping all the way) and made a few more zig zag turns. Harry clutched the fringe for dear life.

Eventually it screeched to a stop before a twenty foot white door and let him off. Harry rolled it up and tucked it under his arm. He glanced down the hallway, which seemed to extend infinitely in both directions. He scuffed his feet on the rich velvet carpet, turned the solid gold handle and pushed the door open. It swung fluidly and silently.

These frogs, Harry thought grumpily, born with a silver spoon in their mouths no doubt.

Inside the room was just as white and shiny as the rest of the palace. Every spare piece of paneling was carved within an inch of its life. The massive four poster bed was draped with woven silk tapestries depicting various witches and wizards lounging on the grass with unicorns and drinking from golden goblets. The room was about the size of Gryffindor Tower. Harry walked over to the massive windows and grasped the golden fringe. He looked out across a wide expanse of gardens, fields of flowers, trellised rows of those plants he'd seen on the way in, sprawling lawns. He tossed the magic carpet down on the floor.

"Bet the climate is terrible here," he said aloud.

Then he went to the ensuite commode and was faced with one of the strangest decisions he'd ever encountered in his life. Later he learned that it was called a bidet.

It did not improve his opinion of the French.

After everything was cleaned up, (Harry honestly didn't know how people could have ever lived without magic) he walked back to the giant bed and flung himself on it. The ceiling seemed awfully far away from this vantage point.

There was a letter on his pillow. Harry reached over absently and opened it.

_Dear Mr. Potter:_

_It has come to our attention that you have breached British Wizarding Embargo No. 247 by illegally operating a Class A sorcerous woven object more commonly known to the vulgar parlance as a 'flying carpet'. As you are no doubt aware, for the safety of our wizarding families, we cannot allow such a flagrant breach to go unpunished. Please report to the Ministry of Magic Civil Division Courtroom 13 on Saturday the 31st of July for your incarceration hearing and to pay the $300 galleon mandatory fine. You will then spend a to-be-determined amount of time in Azkaban. _

_Hoping you are well, _

_Mafalda Hopkins_

_P.S. Sorry that it has to be on your birthday. I've always been a huge fan. XOXO. -Mafalda_

Harry closed his eyes and let the letter fall out of his hands. This was beyond ridiculous. He had no intention of showing up. In fact, if anyone made a fuss about it, he'd join the Foreign Legion. He was in France after all. Go to Azkaban.

And who pray tell was going to keep him in Azkaban since the dementors were scattered across the countryside like ghouls being rounded up and exterminated for supporting Voldemort?

Harry read the letter again in disbelief.

As he was reading, another one materialized in midair and fell on his head. This one looked heavier.

HARRY. KOSOVO GOING TO PIECES AGAIN. MUST CHECK WITH THEIR MINISTRY OF MAGIC SEE IF CAN'T SPARE SOME HEALERS FOR THE CIVVY CASUALTIES. PEACE IS ON THE WAY, WE JUT HAVE TO FIND IT. SO GLAD TO HEAR THAT YOU CAN MAKE THE LONDON TRIAL OF MALFOY. SHOULD BE INTERESTING. WONDER WHAT HE'LL THINK BEING TRIED IN MUGGLE COURT. MUST POP OFF. NATO CALLING. - TONY

And hardly had he finished reading when a third one landed on top of the previous. He didn't need to open this one to know what it was. The paper was heavily printed with close lines of text and looked official. It was probably a summons to Mr. Malfoy's trial. Harry didn't want to know when.

He got up, wandered back into the bathroom and started rummaging through the quaint little cupboards and drawers. He told himself that he was looking for some kind of 'and he woke up and it was all a dream' potion. At least an asprin, even muggles had asprin. His head was throbbing violently. He opened a drawer or two, snatched up a purple bottle to read the label-bath salts-went through an entire row of scented bubble baths and just about gave up in frustration. Then he remembered that next to the bed there was a large heavy bellpole. Maybe he could find a house elf and wrangle something out of him.

He rounded the corner and received the shock of his life.

Standing by the bed, peering over and trying to read his personal mail was none other than the greasy git of Slytherin dungeon, the potions parasite, the bombastic bimbo, the snappish snooper, none other than the ghostly outline of Severus Snape!

So the blighter came back as a ghost, did he?

Harry was furious.

There ought to be a law. Or something.

Snape froze, looking ridiculously awkward, his proverbial hand caught in the proverbial cookie jar. It took a while for Harry to notice that he looked different. This was younger Snape, this was an unnaturally skinny Snape that didn't fill out his robes, was all angles and elbows, and who probably was cutting his own hair with a pair of dull scissors. If this was supposed to be Snape in his afterlife prime, Harry felt deeply sorry for the man.

Snape recovered before Harry did, and straightened up, giving Harry the icy glare of superiority that had always made Harry's knees a bit weak...only somehow the effect wasn't complete when Snape looked like he needed a couple of solid meals and some acne medication.

"_Thou shalt see me at Philippi."_ Snape intoned with a vacant stare in his eyes, one ghostly hand upraised in warning. Then he vanished in a trace of smoke.

"GET BACK HERE," Harry shouted, charging forward. "You can't sell that to me. Why have you been following us! I saw you on the road! GET BACK HERE YOU SNEAK."

But Snape had gone. Harry looked under the bed. Harry looked behind the drapes. Harry dashed around, opening all the cupboard doors. Ghosts couldn't just disappear like that. Snape a ghost!

He tore open his door just in case Snape wasn't hiding in the hallway and ran face to face into Hermione, who had obviously been preparing to knock. Hermione gave a little shriek. Harry pulled her inside.

"Shh." he said, "Snape is here!" he hissed.

"Goodness gracious Harry," Hermione said, gasping for breath, "you don't have to go dashing around like that!"

"Didn't you hear me _Snape_ is here!" Harry said.

"Snape?"

There was a frustratingly blank look in Hermione's eyes.

"Yes I know he's dead," Harry said, answering her unspoken question, "but he's back all the same. He's spying on us!"

"What?"

"Hermione will you stop asking rhetorical questions! This," Harry dashed to the bed and thrust the pile of letters into her hands, "this came for me just now and he was _reading _them. I've been fined for flying on the carpet, and they're trying Mr. Malfoy in muggle courts for something and there was something about Kosovo but I didn't understand that part-"

Hermione was staring at him with a look that was getting blanker and blanker by the moment. Harry let his voice trail off into silence. She seemed to still be gasping for air.

"One at a time," she said, "And then I've got to tell you my news too! Start with Snape. Snape is back?"

"As a ghost! He was here." Harry pointed to the place that he'd seen the vision. "He's probably still in this room listening to us."

"What does it matter, if he's a ghost," Hermione said.

"Well he's probably spying on us. What happens when you've got a picture and are a ghost at the same time? McGonagall set him up to this I can see it now I can' t believe that I missed it before!"

"Oh please, Harry," Hermione said, "we're not _interesting_ enough to spy on."

Harry considered this.

"What if," he said, "Voldemort came back as a ghost too?"

"I think that would be particularly an excellent punishment for him," Hermione said, "ghosts are powerless Harry, you know that, ask Nearly Headless Nick. You've seen how they live...er...die."

"I don't like it, it's sneaky," Harry said, with finality. "Why do I feel like I'm always the last person to know what's going on?"

"Remember," Hermione said, "that the Skeletal Key doesn't work for you if you know too much about it. That's the only reason why McGonagall can't tell you everything. Besides, what do you need to know? We're being given dinner tonight, and I think we should start trying to convince Beauxbatons to host the Triwizard tournament next year. It's due next year, and traditionally they're the ones to hold it after Hogwarts does. And we should make some kind of thank you speech, and we should make small talk with the teachers and compliment the students," Hermione finished, and her voice grew hotter and more animated as she went on. "We are not in danger, and if Snape is here, he's not _spying_ on us because we have nothing to spy on!"

"Then why is he here?" Harry asked.

"Why," Hermione said evenly, "should I know? He's haunting _you_ not me. Now if we can move on to more important matters-"

"This IS an important matter!"

Hermione ignored him and read the two letters. Then she opened the court document and read it too. Harry sat still and fumed. Now his head REALLY hurt and he hadn't been able to find anything, no potions, no muggle medicine, and now Snape was back.

"It says you've got to be back in London the last week of July," Hermione said, "That gives us almost a month and a half, which is good, since I think Madame Maxime was figuring that you'd give some lectures on DADA. You can pay your fine when you're there too." she looked up at him, "See, there's no crisis. It'll work out perfectly, we can finish up here, and then head to Durmstrang from London."

She reached in her pocket and held up another letter, "I've got my hearing set for the week before," she said grimly.

"But they're going to send me to Azkaban," Harry protested. "Over a stupid flying carpet!"

"No they're not," Hermione said. And from another pocket she pulled out a paper.

_Azkaban est vide. Les prisonniers se sont enfuis. Nuremgard le système de justice le seul espoir car ils combattre la rébellion des Détraqueurs. Tous les citoyens sont invités à apprendre le sortilège du Patronus_

"What does it say?" Harry asked.

"Oh honestly," Hermione said, "French isn't that difficult. Azkaban is completely destroyed. All the prisoners are gone. The dementors are in full rebellion, and we're facing another wizarding war."

"Snape has something to do with all this," Harry said.

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Look at the Daily Prophet." She handed Harry today's copy.

"Rita Skeeter Exclusive Interview," Harry read, "with Britain's most eligible bachelor," he looked up with a twinkle in his eye, "Neville Longbottom."

"There is no mention of Azkaban or dementors or anything in any of the English papers," Hermione said. "They're covering it up."

Harry raised his eyebrows and did his best Snape imitation, "_Obviously."_

"Oh get over Snape, will you? You didn't mind him being a portrait. Not all Hogwarts Headmasters were good guys. And remember, Dumbledore always trusted him. I didn't see Dumbledore going over and beating up Snape's portrait. I'm not convinced he was all bad."

Harry had not told Hermione what he'd seen about Snape in the pensieve. In fact, it hadn't crossed his mind until now. The memory of the awkward ghost, the awkward boy, the desperado promise he'd made to Dumbledore came rushing back to Harry in a flash.

"You're turning pink," Hermione said. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," Harry said. He wasn't about to tell Hermione that Snape had been sweet on his mum.

"I'm not sure that we can do anything about the dementors," Hermione said, "but Beauxbatons has a very famous wizarding library, and I believe that the grimoire of the Thrice Great Hermes Trismegistus is here, the wizard who first conjured a dementor."

"You've lost me," Harry said. "When's dinner?"

"I came to get you," Hermione said, "Madame Maxime's serving cocktails in her boudoir. Hagrid's looking at the kittens."

"Oh," Harry said. "Well fine. We can leave Snape here to gloom about then."

"Yes," Hermione said. "Anything. Let's go. Let me handle the dementor situation."

"Absolutely," Harry said. "Just Brilliant."


	9. Manticore Apertif

They rode Hermione's carpet to Madame Maxime's 'boudoir'. Harry had initially protested, on account of the Ministry of Magic and not wanting to be summoned to more hearings.

"Oh bollocks the Ministry of Magic," Hermione had said, "it's fun. What's more I'm planning on showing up to mine _riding_ my carpet. Madame Maxime said that we could keep them and I'm not giving up this method of transportation. It's much warmer than a broom! You absolutely freeze on a broom over any distance."

Harry had obediently gotten aboard and they'd zoomed back through another series of endless mirrored halls until they'd screeched to a halt. Madame Maxime's suite of rooms was unlike anything Harry had seen or imagined in Hogwarts. Her door looked like a bower, the entrance to an atrium. He walked under the creeping trellis (and noticed that the door was fifteen feet tall), and into an indoor garden full of flowers, and birds, and more than that, several magical creatures that were not only spiny, but occasionally shot fire or snapped menacingly in his direction. The air in here was different as well. It held the scent of the woods, and the clear, crisp smell of dew on the grass. The thought flickered across Harry's mind that Hagrid would be very very happy here.

He didn't know why he thought such things. Hagrid wasn't going anywhere. Hagrid would never leave Hogwarts, he was sure of that. Didn't Hagrid dearly love teaching Care of Magical Creatures? Wasn't he pleased to be a teacher when he hadn't even graduated and had even been sent to Azkaban? Who else would hire him. Beauxbatons students, with their refined ways, would probably think he was an oaf. But as he looked around himself, he could not help seeing a vision of Hagrid, bending over the waters to feed the baby kraken with crumbles of chicken meal and a big grin on his face when a stingbat flitted by and ate a piece of his hair.

"Harry," Hermione said, reaching out and touching his arm, "are you ok?"

"Yes. Right. I'm fine," he said, jumping abruptly back to the present.

Hermione looked like she didn't really believe him. "It's this way." She pointed, and then led the way across the lawns to a pavilion. Well it was almost like a pavilion, and more like a few airy silk scarves draped across several large trees. Under the floating white sheets was a small knot of people. Hagrid and Madame Maxime were instantly recognizable. It took Harry a few more steps forward to focus his vision enough realize that Fleuris Umbridge-Fortescue-Smythe was there, sitting on a chaise lounge with her feet tucked up under her, and also a man who was completely white. Not white as in caucasian, white as in refrigerator. He made the Malfoys look positively swarthy. His hair was snow white, although he was not old, and his skin was the same, even his eyes, and this was the creepy part, were solid white.

Harry suppressed a shudder as the man turned his direction. Harry couldn't say for certain whether the man was looking at him or not. He looked like a dead fish, that's all Harry could say.

There was the most wonderful musical sound coming from the pavilion.

"'Arry and 'Ermione," Madame Maxime purred, "you are fainally 'ere! I 'ope you found your rooms comfairtable."

"Yes indeed," Harry said. "Thank you so very much for this opportunity."

"Yep!" Hagrid said, who had been kneeling by a box, "can' say ye'll ever ge' a chance like this again'. Look at 'em. Little tykes! They don' even know to be afraid yet."

"Oh are these the manticore kittens?" Hermione said, racing forward and kneeling by the box. Harry had never noticed her to be so interested in magical creatures before. She leaned over the box and tucked her hair behind her ears. "They're adorable! How strange!"

"Is that what's making the sound?" Harry asked.

"Yes, ze are beautiful, wild, untameable beasts," Madame Maxime said in a voice that was clearly meant to emphasize the poetic. "A manticore is ze most treacherous of hounds, 'e loves 'is voice almost as much as 'is dinner."

"They eat only human flesh," Hagrid supplied helpfully, "yeh have to do a lo' of grave robbin' teh keep em from starvin' poor tykes."

Fleuris gave a strangled squeak, the white man raised his eyebrows. Hermione gave no reaction. She probably already knew, she knew everything.

"Yuck," Harry said.

"But Ai have bred manticorr for years," Madame Maxime said, "an I do not rob graves, ze medical zchool 'as been 'appy to supply. But zeeze," she bent over the box of kittens herself and pulled one up to cuddle, "zeeze are domesticated. Zeir muzzer will eat zhiraffe now. Ai am 'oping to temp ze kittens wiz cattle."

Even this news did not completely erase the revulsion that Harry was feeling. The kitten was about the size of a lion cub, a solid light gray, with a face that looked almost human. It opened it's mouth to sing again, and Harry distinctly saw several rows of shark teeth.

"I have heard of your breeding program," Hermione said, picking up one of the little monsters herself, "It's absolutely fantastic. The paper you wrote on the magical properties of animal genetics is legendary, well I should probably say 'infamous', among the zoologites in Britain."

"Yeh, I've used it mehself a few times," Hagrid said, "Hermione yeh remember those blast ended skrewts?"

Harry remembered. Giant shellfish that exploded on one end, and poison stung on the other. He'd heard a rumor that they were an illegal breeding experiment that Hagrid had been carrying out.

Hagrid looked over at Madame Maxime with a genuine grin. "They were perfec' if yeh ask me. Coul' never figure ou' exactly what to feed 'em, but perfec' nonetheless."

Madame Maxime turned fetchingly pink.

Hermione cuddled her manticore kitten dreamily. Harry reflected that he'd always been much more of a dog person, actually.

"'Ah, but let me introduce you," said Madame Maxime, "To Monsieur Pouf." She indicated the fish-eyed white man.

The man stood and made an elegant, if rather complex obeisance that was directed at Harry and Hermione simultaneously.

"Monsier Pouf oversees ze culinary zchool 'ere at Beauxbatons Academie," Madame Maxime continued, "'ee is one of ze most famous political chefs in France."

"Political chef?" Harry asked, trying to sound polite and not accusative. It was one thing to teach ordinary cooking at a school of magic, it was even more dastardly to politicize the whole thing. "At Hogwarts, we get right to the heart of the matter and teach _Potions."_

Mr. Pouf gave a slight smile at Harry's confusion, "a political chef has a long and exalted magical history, Mr. Potter, I'm surprised you have not heard of us before." He spoke in unaccented English. So unaccented, in fact, that after listening to Madame Maxime and Hagrid trade abominable pronunciations back and forth, Harry didn't immediately understand what Pouf had said.

"I remember," Hermione said, manticore kitten still clutched to her chest, "the Goblin Wars—Professor Binns at Hogwarts mentioned it once—that rumor was that during the final peace summit of 1631 that matters were settled during dinner to such an extent that everyone thought the whole thing was over. Professor Binns mentioned that this occurrence was unofficially attributed to a particularly skilled political chef."

"Indeed," said Mr. Pouf, "chef Boy-ar-dee. His namesake lives on, even to this very day!"

Harry choked on a giggle. He swallowed and coughed a bit, trying to recover. Boys shouldn't giggle, he told himself. Sorry, men. Men shouldn't giggle.

"Let me put it this way, mr. Potter," Pouf said, "have you ever tasted a potion so foul that you wanted to spit it out?"

"Ee I've never tasted a potion tha' was even edible, if yeh ask me," Hagrid put in.

"Now," Pouf said, "if you invited your greatest rival to dinner to discuss and important business transaction, would it not be valuable to find a way to spike his drink without him knowing it? Or detect if he'd spiked yours?"

Harry narrowed his eyes. "Actually I can't say I've ever been in such a position. In Britain that sort of thing is frowned upon by the Aurors."

Pouf sighed and shook his head knowingly. He tapped his nose and said, "but ask yourself, are you sure you haven't ever been influenced?"

Harry wouldn't have put it past the Malfoys to drug someone during dinner, but he couldn't think of anyone else. He shrugged innocently.

Hermione had taken no notice of the brewing argument and was cuddling kittens happily with Hagrid and Madame Maxime. Harry had almost forgotten that Fleuris was present, she was trying to make herself so small and pushed back into the couch to hide from the man-eating manticores. Pouf watched his gaze flickering around.

"I make you uneasy," he observed, "but that's just nerves. Don't look at me like I'm some kind of unsightly blot on the landscape, have an appetizer at least." He stood up and passed Harry a tray of cheeses. "These come from the school cave, they're famous all throughout the region."

Harry swallowed the eerie feeling and took a slice of cheese. He was, after all, supposed to be a diplomat and make Hogwarts sound like a more attractive schooling option.

"You're not political chef-ing me, are you?" Harry asked, taking a bite of the creamy white cheese. It had a fine sharp tang to it, and was glassy smooth.

"But of course," Mr. Pouf said, with a smile, "I must demonstrate my art! Now, have some apricots," he said swapping trays around, "and finish it off with a curl of chocolate! Voila!"

Harry took the apricot and chocolate and ate them dutifully. He couldn't help noticing that the furriness of the apricot, and the bittersweetness of the chocolate turned the flavor of the cheese into a bit of a soaring medley of combined happiness and refreshment. Harry took a deep breath, and all of the sudden, the entire situation looked a lot brighter. The manticore purring sounded even more melodious, the cool breeze through the arbor cooled his neck, and the beautiful restful atmosphere made him let go of all the tiredness and the tension of the last few days.

Harry sat down on the chaise lounge next to Fleuris. He perched the tray on his knees. "Don't mind if I do," he told Mr. Pouf.

Pouf laughed heartily.

Harry leaned over towards Fleuris and offered her some.

"Oh no, I can't," she said, "I'm counting calories."

"So what kinds of things are taught at Beauxbatons," Harry asked, "I've never heard of culinary arts being taught as a wizarding subject."

Mr. Pouf steepled his fingers, "Indeed? What kinds of things are taught at Hogwarts?"

Harry figured that now was a s good a time as any to start marketing the finer qualities of Hogwarts. He had even been preparing for this moment, if not with the same proficiency that Hermione probably had.

"Well we've got Transfiguration, which is taught by our Headmaster," Harry said, "who as I'm sure you know is also an animagus. Charms, Herbology, Potions, Care of Magical Creatures, Defense Against the Dark Arts, Astronomy, Divination, Arithmancy, History of Magic, Ancient Runes….I'm sure there's also elective classes that I must be missing."

"Curious," Pouf said.

"What's curious about it?"

Fleuris was the one that answered. She gave Harry a dubious look. "It sounds like you're running a liberal arts school over there. Don't you teach anything practical? Or do all the students finish up at Hogwarts and go on to muggle University?"

"What do you mean, practical?" Harry snapped, "I was rather practically prepared to defeat Voldemort and save your school, wasn't I? Or did you think he'd have been happy with Hogwarts alone under his command?"

Silence descended.

Fleuris picked up a pillow and cradled it across her lap, she looked over at the manticores. Harry bit his tongue. This was precisely the sort of thing that McGonagall would disapprove of. But McGonagall was walking in a different world, a world where she was working hand in hand with (a presumably somewhat reformed) Dolores Umbridge to try and rebuild wizarding life in Britain to a state that it hadn't been in fifty years. McGonagall might be willing to swallow differences and deal with Umbridge simply as an 'unfortunate personality', but Harry wasn't quite sedate enough to do that with Umbridge's sister. Practicality indeed.

"What are the required core curriculum at Beauxbatons?" Harry asked, turning back towards Mr. Pouf. He, at least, seemed to be less insular and narrow-minded.

"Ah yes," Pouf said, springing at the opportunity to restart some form of civility, "Well, we're not so big on transfiguration here, but it is an elective, potions I think leads into the culinary school, astronomy, divination, arithmancy are all covered in our palmistry course...another elective."

"But what DO you teach?" Harry pressed.

"Accounting," Pouf said, with a pleased tone of finality in his voice.

"Magical accounting?"

"Good gracious no, regular accounting, there are enough shyster muggles out there who practice magical accounting," Pouf said, "no we teach good solid business practice. How to get started running a store and that sort of thing, you'd be surprised how few opportunities are available for a young wizard or witch in the magical community. Most of our graduates do several years with muggle companies to get started at the very least. Some like it so well that they go and take over the industry, which, as you might imagine, isn't so hard if you've got magical abilities. Turning a profit," Pouf laughed as he rambled, "is of course difficult in any business. The bright ones succeed, the dull ones end up in gov-" Pouf broke off his speech abruptly.

Fleuris was glaring at him down an upturned nose.

"-end up in situations adequate for their upkeep," Pouf finished stiffly. He turned back to Harry, "have an anchovy with cream."

Harry was not about to refuse.

"We have a well respected architectural school as well," Pouf continued, "we even admit muggles to our Paris campus, Les Beaux Arts."

Harry must have looked confused at this.

"It's just architectural design," Pouf explained, "you don't need magical abilities for that, however if you're an on the job contractor the wingardium leviosa spell is your bread and butter naturally. A muggle would be at a distinct disadvantage in those situations. But, they manage, they always manage," Pouf said. "Devilish clever things like fulcrums. Sometimes I think they know more about it than we do." He chuckled and helped himself to one of his own anchovies, "I personally have been petitioning NATO to let us start a regular medical school. Your prime minister," he pointed at Harry critically, "is on the phone with my office at least once a week demanding shipments of skele-gro to his veterans hospitals. It's under review by the school board. The benefits to our muggle soldiers would be enormous of course, but the violation of the International Magical Secrecy act would be difficult to circumvent."

"Skele gro for muggle soldiers?" Harry asked, "aren't they tall enough?"

"Magical healers," Pouf said, "so they can regrow limbs that get shot off with regular bullets. Things like that."

"It's not our business," Harry said, "It's not even our world. The muggles are quite a bit happier not knowing the magical world exists, believe me, I was raised by a muggle family. They hate magic."

"Not all muggles hate magic," Hermione's voice wafted over. She joined them and sat on the grass. "A lot of my muggle friends knew I was a witch. It was always frustrating that I couldn't do magic outside of school." She gulped a bit and looked over at Harry, "you don't know this but I got eleven howlers my first year from the ministry of magic for trying to prove to my friends that I wasn't making everything up."

Harry's jaw dropped.

Fleuris laughed. Pouf looked wise.

"There is some debate," Pouf said, "whether those muggles who do not hate magic are really muggles or simply unawakened to their magical powers. In fact, there's debate whether muggles exist at all."

"What?" Harry and Hermione said together.

"Whether they exist at all." Pouf said, "or whether they're all witches and wizards in various degrees of awakened and unawakened powers. In fact, there's debate whether witches and wizards exist as well."

"You mean," Harry said, jokingly, "that we're all muggles in denial of our sheer ordinariness?"

"Exactly." Pouf said, with a twinkle in his eye, "I think you've got the idea."

"We are not all the same," Harry said, still laughing, "surely you're joking."

"It's debated, that's all."

Hermione seemed to be pondering this. She would be the kind to overanalyze drivel. Pouf saw the frown on her face and offered her a date wrapped in apple-smoked bacon to ease her troubled mind.

"Those manticore kittens," she said as she munched, "they'll hypnotize you if you let them. Their voices are so beguiling." she shook her head, "I feel like I've just walked out of a dream."

"Miss Granger," Pouf said, and placed the silver tray back on the tea-table with the others, "I've heard tell that your NEWT scores from Hogwarts have not been equalled in three hundred years. I have a colleague who desperately wants to meet you and convince you to come work for her." He smiled, "Your reputation precedes you."

"Really?" Hermione aksed, "I thought Harry was the famous one."

They all laughed. Except for Fleuris, who seemed to have the sense of humor of a toad.

"My my, look at ze time," Madame Maxime called suddenly, whipping out her wand to float the box of manticore kittens back across the river to presumably where they'd come. Hagrid let the last one slip out of his arms into the box and gave it a quick scratch behind the ears.

"Zey will be expecting us for dinnair zhortly," Madame Maxime said, "It is only a zhort walk. I zhall lead ze way. Come 'Agrid." SHe enfolded her arm around Hagrid's and patted his wrist.

Hagrid stood up very straight and tall and beamed.

Harry wondered grimly just who was recruiting whom.

Fleuris got to her feet and wobbled. Harry noticed that she was wearing very pointy heeled shoes that sank into the grass. Monsieur Pouf offered his arm to Hermione. Harry, feeling the call of duty, bowed and offered his arm to Fleuris.

"I hope we don't have to walk through this grass the whole time," Fleuris said, as she wobbled along.

Harry had made it a policy as a young man never to say anything critical about women's footwear. He did not now break the long habit of a lifetime.


	10. Murder Digestif

Thanks so much to everyone who has reviewed/favorite/story alerted! In response to the question: is this a farce? I must answer that I have taken a lesson from the Bard and strive only to write tragedies, comedies, and errors. I leave this story's particular designation to the discerning reader. ;)

* * *

><p>After much pomp, and even more circumstance, it was all over and Harry stumbled back upstairs for another zooming ride on a carpet to his assigned room. It had only been a regular school dinner at Beauxbatons, but Harry decided that if he had to sit through one more round of applause, he was going to explode. Toasting this and honoring that, raise your glasses mon ami to ze great opportunity for magical cooperation! Hermione had translated most of it for him, whispering quickly in his ears what Madame Maxime was saying, her voice low and hesitant. She was quite fluent. Not that it surprised Harry terribly much that Hermione should know French, as well as everything else. What surprised him was that throughout all these years of magic, no one had figured out a spell to make all languages understandable. He supposed that legilimens came close, but even then, that spell revealed only a vague impression of a scene, the caster still had to be able to understand what was said in order to know the meaning of a vision.<p>

Even more surprising than Hermione speaking French was Hagrid speaking French. He must have learned sometime.

Harry bid the carpet a sleepy goodbye at his door and turned the handle. Inside, the room was lit by several candles, casting an adequate, moody glow inside. Harry shut the door behind himself and went to brush his teeth.

His mouth was full of foam when he remembered that he was not alone.

Or at least, he hadn't been alone earlier today. Maybe Snape had decided to haunt someone else.

He brushed nonchalantly and reached for his wand. Maybe he could use homenium revelio, or maybe just revelio. Whatever did Snape want with him? Harry couldn't even guess. In one quick motion he rounded the corner and raised his wand.

Before he could incant a thing a spell flew out of the corner and hit his chest. Harry fell backwards against the wall, his eyes fridigly open. He couldn't breathe.

A dark shadow slid silently out of the corner, opened the door, and left.

Harry's chest began to spasm. It had been a whispered spell, he didn't hear what it was. Harry concentrated his mind, finite incantatum he thought desperately, finite incantatum! But the wordless magic was insufficient. His concentration was insufficient. The seconds slid by and the silence closed in. He couldn't move, and he couldn't breathe. He couldn't call for help. His lungs burned and burned. A minute.

Then two.

Then three.

The door flew open and Hermione charged toward him wand raised. "Relashio!" she cried. "RELASHIO!"

Harry passed out.

* * *

><p>It must only have been a few seconds later. Hermione was pulling him onto the bed, struggling with his limp body. Harry gasped, gulping in air. With the oxygen the pain hit his head in a rush. Harry bit his lip to keep from screaming it hurt so badly.<p>

"Close your eyes," a voice said. "Just breathe for a while."

Harry obeyed. Between the stabs in his head, the pounding of his heart, his tingling fingers and feet, he could think of nothing else. Then he became aware of the velvet bedspread beneath him, and the hand on his forehead, Hermione's, the sound of the muttered spells.

The same voice saying, "Salubria vitae, cast it slowly, that's the key."

"Salubria vitae," Hermione said, and cast slowly.

A warm glow washed over Harry and effectively banished the pain. He lay, still gasping for air, fearful that it would happen again, and conscious that each breath could have been his last.

"Hermione," Harry gasped, "how did you know!"

"Snape saw," Hermione said softly, "don't worry. You're safe. Don't move, you're struggling against the healing spell. You'll feel better if you just relax for a few minutes."

If Hermione wanted Harry to relax, Snape was not the person to mention.

"Snape! He did this! Where is he?"

"Shh," Hermione said, "he's not here. He's gone to see if he can track your attacker down. I'm sorry I didn't believe you when you said he was back as a ghost."

Harry moaned. Snape was back and haunting him. What had he done to deserve this? Other than make Snape's life miserable, of course. Other than playing pranks on him, other than calling him a greasy git, other than snooping into his personal life (which Harry deeply regretted, particularly now), other than being a living reminder of the bad choices Snape had made in his life. Imagine, looking at the busy haired boy in the back of potions class, and knowing that if you'd just been less of an ass that he could have been your son. Had Snape imagined what Harry could have looked like? Awful, greasy, evil, slimy Snape! Harry really hadn't done anything in particular to deserve this. He had at least done detentions dutifully, never complained in class, was always respectful, etc.

"You have the strangest look on your face," Hermione said, "are you still feeling the effects of the curse? Do I need to call Snape back to help? He's the one who knows all the counter-curses to the French-style magic. He saved you, Harry. Ghosts can't cast a spell, of course, but he told me the incantation and how to do it...without his help, you would have died."

Harry couldn't say anything.

"What? You're still fuming about Snape?" Hermione sighed. "He's only a teacher. He was part of the Order of the Phoenix!"

"Snape wasn't a traitor," Harry said.

"Does it really matter?" Hermione asked, "everyone was on eggshells with Voldemort on the prowl anyways. People were doing things that they didn't mean, because they were scared, they didn't think. I don't think Snape hated Dumbledore, even if he did kill him."

Harry took a big gulp and plunged ahead. If he didn't tell Hermione, who could he tell? Hermione always had suggestions on what to do.

"Snape gave me his memories when he died," Harry told her, "he wasn't a traitor. Dumbledore told Snape to kill him- because he wanted to save Draco Malfoy!"

"What! Draco Malfoy kill Dumbledore? That's ridiculous. He couldn't have managed to kill Dumbledore if he'd wanted to."

"Yes that was the point. Voldemort wanted to punish Lucius Malfoy by sending Draco to certain death." Harry said, "and Snape stepped in and saved his life...and his soul."

"That was a very generous thing for the Head of Slytherin House to do for a student," Hermione said.

"But it goes beyond that," Harry said, "do you remember when Dumbledore's arm shriveled up like a salted slug? Well Snape had saved his life then. Dumbledore had received a curse that was unbreakable and going to kill him, Snape confined it to his hand. But they both knew that he wasn't going to last. I think Dunbledore wanted Snape to be headmaster after him. To protect Hogwarts from the Death Eaters."

"Great job he did against the Carrows," Hermione snorted, "well. That explains why Dumbledore trusted him. But why didn't he tell the Order this? Why didn't he tell anyone?"

Harry propped himself up on his elbows. He thought he'd seen a ghostly face behind the curtain. Snape's face, but very unlike Snape.

"What is it?" Hermione asked.

"Nothing," Harry said. "I don't know why Dumbledore never told the Order why he trusted Snape. Dumbledore wasn't exactly good at explaining himself."

"True."

Harry sat up fully. Every muscle ached. He rubbed his throat with one hand. Hermione was still giving him the eyeball roll that meant she didn't buy that this was the whole story. She didn't press him for answers though, and he didn't volunteer them. For a moment, all he could think of was Snape breathing down his neck for the rest of his life, haunting him for revealing the secret that he'd spent his entire life trying to protect. Why Snape was so touchy about it, Harry couldn't really see. Since everyone involved was now dead, you'd think he'd relax a little about his reputation.

Then Harry abruptly got it.

"Hermione," he said. "That's it! The Maurauders are all dead. If Snape moved on, he'd have to face them for all eternity."

"Oh," Hermione said. "I guess you're right."

"Blast. I'm cursed forever. First Voldemort, now Snape." Harry bolted upright, "what if Voldemort's back as a ghost too?"

Hermione looked perplexed. "I don't think there was much left of him to become a ghost. His soul was split, remember."

Harry shuddered. The thought struck him that muggles didn't have to deal with ghosts. Muggles usually couldn't even see ghosts.

"Harry," Hermione reached over and took his hand, "evil did not leave the world the day that Voldemort died. It's still here. It will always be here. That's why we have to keep fighting. If not Voldemort, then it'll be someone else."

Her face glowed with earnest sentiment. She really cared. Harry flushed a bit. Her eyes flickered down to her hand, and she let go of Harry.

"Ahem."

Both of them looked up, startled.

"Loathe as I am to interrupt such a touching tryst," Snape's ghost said, "I have information that cannot wait."

"What?" Harry asked.

"Your attacker was not human, appears to have come here on the direct orders of Madame Maxime, and is likely to strike again since you are so woefully unprepared. Look to the Borgia for answers," Snape said. "Good evening to you." He tipped his ghostly form in the most sarcastic bow he could manage and disappeared into the drapes.

"He's still hiding in there," Harry told Hermione, "ghosts can't just vanish. Get back here Snape!"

Snape did not re-materialize.

"I think," Harry said.

"Madame Maxime?" Hermione said in shock, "why should she try to kill you? Madame Maxime?" Hermione repeated in disbelief.

"He's probably lying," Harry said, "GET OUT HERE!"

"And you're still in danger?"

"I refuse to be in danger," Harry said, "and I refuse to listen to any more of these dramatics! If he won't tell us anything, then I won't listen. Hermione, you go back to your room, stay there, get up in the morning like nothing has happened." Harry dug through his pockets. "I'm going to set the Skeletal Key on my nightstand," He pulled the object out and threw it down with a clank, "and since I bloody don't even know what it does, that should be as good protection from further assasains as any."

Hermione looked doubtful.

"Look," Harry said, "and don't let anyone see you leaving here either or I'll catch it from Ron." He lowered his voice and whispered in her ear, "and I'll deal with Snape after you're gone."

Hermione straightened up and nodded quietly. "All right, I don't see what else I can do. Except," she said suddenly, "I've got two DA medallions. Take one of them. If anything happens, you can let me know that way." She handed the coin over to Harry.

Harry took it. Hermione gave him a curt nod, brushed off her hands and left. The door closed with a ringing sound. Had she slammed it? Harry couldn't even think of that now. Someone wanted him dead, and they'd almost succeeded in killing him. Harry got up and cast a few protective spells around the room. Maybe he should have had Hermione do this before she'd left, her protections were always stronger than he could manage. He couldn't keep relying on Hermione Granger all his life though. Ron was touchy enough about them as it was. The spells shimmered out, edging a protective bubble around him that made him feel alot better. Harry steeled himself and decided to try an experiment.

"Accio Snape," he said.

A howl went up from behind the curtains. Then the sound of a horrendous scuffle, although the curtains themselves never moved. Harry could see flashes of a gostly arm or leg here and there through the fabric. The spell dragged Snape slowly from his hiding place.

Snape, rather disheveled after the ordeal, shook out the sleeves of his ghostly robe and raked his hair out of his eyes.

"You," Snape said, "are the most foolhardy, air-headed ignoramus, ever to cast experimental spells without knowing what disastrous effects they may have!"

"From where I'm standing it worked rather effectivly."

"Childish boy!" Snape said icily, "accio is designed to work in the physical plane, cast across a metaphysical divide it nearly strained me through the fabric between the worlds! I could have arrive as a pile of gelatinous ectoplasm at your feet!"

"Is that what you use to style your hair?"

Snape snapped his ghostly mouth closed with a click of clenched teeth.

"Thank you for calling Hermione," Harry said, "I owe you my life, which makes twice now that I know of."

Snape seemed even more irate at hearing this and drew himself up to his full height.

"Oh stop swelling up like a toad," Harry said, "why are you here? Did McGonagall put you up to this?"

"Yes," Snape said, "she suspected that there would likely be several attempts on your life. Why do you think she was so insistent that Miss Granger and Hagrid accompany you?"

"Nice of her to let me know about it," Harry said.

Snape paused and held up his hand for silence. He tilted his head to the side, listening. Harry noticed that there were several large gashes on that side of his neck. They seemed to be neatly tended to, cleaned up, in fact he wouldn't have even noticed had not a large dent appeared in his neck.

"I followed a very sinister piece of dark magic away from here," Snape said when the sound died away, "something that I would have more expected to encounter at Durmstrang than Beauxbatons. You were not attacked by an actual person, but by a half-dementor, half-human temporary blended creature. I followed it away from here and back to Madame Maxime's apartments where the ghost repelling charms kick in and I could go no further. In light of this development, I would recommend not trusting her." Snape spoke the last words as if he expected Harry to argue with them.

"I don't trust anyone anymore."

"Not," Snape said, "even Hermione Granger, or you would have told her the real reason that I cannot enter the afterlife."

Harry raised his eyes to the ghost's face, "you can't face her?"

Snape was silent for a moment, contemplation on his features. Then he took a deep breath. "Let me make it clear Mr. Potter, that if you mention, if you hint at, or even allude vaguely to my feelings towards Lily Evans-even the slightest suspicion of a hint - you will begin to feel that Peeves was a fine companion and upstanding citizen because I Will Haunt You for the rest of your miserable life. Is that clear?"

"I think you underestimate the beyond's power to change people," Harry said, "You're just afraid that they'll laugh at you like they used to. You're afraid to face my mother."

"Don't lecture me on matters you have no understanding of!"

"But I do," Harry said, "I was given a choice. After I was hit with that second killing curse." He sighed, "like you, I chose to stay."

Snape eyed him suspiciously.

Harry leaned forward, "and if YOU tell Hermione or anyone else about the conversation we're having right now, I'll make SURE to clear your name forever in Britain and get you awarded the Order of Merlin First Class and have a shrine built in the Ministry of Magic commemorating the great unrequited love of the finest Slytherin for the fairy-tale princess Gryffindor. I can't see if you're going pale or anything considering you're a ghost, but I do hope you understand the situation."

Snape didn't do anything. In fact, Snape looked pretty incapable of thought at this moment.

"Good," Harry said, "no why don't you go and haunt Hermione or something. I'm exhausted and now my neck hurts."

Snape's eyes flashed back to life, "I have no intention of haunting a young lady's bedroom Potter you lowlife."

"Haunt Hagrid then."

"No one knows about my unfortunate state of existence other than yourself and Miss Granger," Snape said, "and I intend to keep it that way."

"Well then what do you know about wine tasting because I've got to give opinions on the 'barrel stock' tomorrow, whatever that is."

"It hardly matters since your aptitude for learning new spells quickly is so abominable."

"Well help me think of adjectives. Bold, fruity, spicy and the like. Or you could go lock yourself up in the bathroom so I don't feel weird about you lurking in my room. Why can't you haunt the hallway? I'm tired."


	11. The Borgia

CHAPTER 11

How Harry ever got to sleep that night, he never knew. He eventually argued Snape off, but he crawled in bed and couldn't sleep. His mind raced, he'd hear a sound and think it was Snape spying on him. Or he'd think another assasain was back. He heard voices, only to wake up and discover that he had dreamed that he was awake and hearing voices. He hadn't felt this odd since he'd been locked in the spidery closet under the stairs back on Privet Drive. He felt alone and vulnerable.

Probably had nothing to do with the fact that someone had tried to kill him earlier. After all, someone was ALWAYS trying to kill him.

Harry felt that he should be used to things like that now.

Morning was excruciatingly slow in coming.

He sat there, with the heavy bedcovers pulled up to his chin and he watched the sunrise over the acres and acres of vineyards on the hills around Beauxbatons.

By five-thirty in the morning he was already getting hungry. His eyelids felt like they must be hanging off his face, like a hound dog's.

He sat up in bed, determined to get up and make the best of things.

Instantly, a small table appeared across the bed at his feet, full of silver domed lids and pots that steamed. In the center was a vase of bright white lillies.

Breakfast in bed?

Harry leaned back and pulled the tray towards him. Maybe he did feel better after all. How had they known he was awake? Was this elf-magic? He'd have to mention to McGonagall that this was an excellent idea to implement at Hogwarts.

Harry reached for a spoon, opened a tray, and began helping himself to hot buttered toast and muffins.

"Are you absolutely determined to die!" Snape said, materializing at Harry's feet. "Don't eat that! Potter you're hopeless! Use the faunacea potabumus charm, it could be poisoned, for heaven's sake there's a Borgia in this school!"

Harry looked up at his unwelcome guest. He took a bite of muffin. "Sorry to eat in front of you." he said.

Snape cursed a bit about not being able to do spells.

"Now you know how muggles feel," Harry said, rather unkindly, but he couldn't bring himself to be sorry.

"One day," Snape said, "I hope you know how muggles feel you arrogant brat."

"What is a Borgia," Harry asked around a mouthful of toast and jam, "I'm ignorant too, you forgot that."

Snape glared at him silently. "You've noticed that Mr. Pouf is strangely...white."

"Well," Harry said, "if you put it that way, Kingsley Shaklebolt is strangely black."

"Will you shut up for one moment so I can tell you? Do you always wake up this eloquent or am I just here at a bad time? Must you always interrupt every conversation with your distinctly unwitty comments? The Borgias are a very ancient Spanish family. They were from Valencia, and several Popes came from the House. They had a famous war with the Florentine Medicis. They were artful poisoners, and as I'm told founded the magical science of the political chef."

"Pouf teaches in the culinary school here," Harry said, "and I can personally vouch that his cooking is stellar and probably he's one of the best teachers here because these crepes are wondrously delicate and the cream is so fresh I wonder he didn't personally milk the cow this morning."

"You're not even listening to me," Snape said, "be careful. The spell I mentioned, faunacea potabumus, that's a poison detecting spell, but it's more valuable in that it's very easily incanted without words. At least try and practice it, I can't always be relying on Miss Granger to keep you alive."

"Why," asked Harry, "do you particularly want to keep me alive."

Snape narrowed his eyes. "Because I'm dead. And I would hate to be dead with you until you've matured a bit. Go off and marry your Ginny Weasley, she'll humble you pretty quickly. When you're a hundred years old, then I'll consider letting you die, but until then, the only thing I want is a little peace and quiet."

"Don't you talk about Ginny!"

"Well it was rather obvious during our disastrous occlumency lessons, and I remind you it wouldn't have been so obvious if you'd have just practiced like I instructed you!"

Harry officially lost his temper. What had Snape seen in his mind? Things that he'd imagined, things he'd done? Whatever it was, if it related to Ginny, it was private, and Harry was mad. He sat there, fuming, staring at Snape and trying to think of a spell that he could cast that would affect a ghost. After a few moments, he gave up.

"You are so like your father," Snape snapped, "you never gave a second thought about knowing my secrets, but it angers you immensely that I know yours."

Harry stuck his lip out further and gnashed his teeth silently. He wished for Nearly Headless Nick at a moment like this. He'd have to befriend another ghost so that he could sic 'em on Snape.

Then something entirely unexpected happened. It had never happened before. Harry had thought it impossible.

Snape smiled.

Snape truly smiled. Not a haughty smile, a genuine smile. Harry couldn't even describe it. It changed the man's face entirely. Snape was a different person.

"What's so funny!" Harry demanded.

Snape said nothing. The smile vanished. But Harry already knew the answer. It was evident in the embarrasment in Snape's face, the way he turned away and looked out the window, the ghost watching the world come alive without him. Harry had his mother's eyes. Great, now Snape was in love with his eyes.

This was awkward.

"Tell me more about the assassain last night," Harry said, thinking desperately for another topic of conversation. A thought popped into his mind: here was someone who could tell him what his mother was like. Harry pushed the thought out of his mind. Snape was untrustworthy. Look what he'd said about Harry's father!

"The assassain," Snape said, "I followed it unseen through the palace, until it disappeared into the warded area around where Madame Maxime hosted you and Miss Granger yesterday. It appeared to be, and forgive me because I've never heard of this, the opposite of a patronus. It was an ethereal shape, but the light seemed to be absorbed into it. I must say that it even exerted an effect on me, similar to the effect of a dementor actually."

"Hermione mentioned that there was a lot of research going on about dementors in France," Harry said, "that dementors might even have been invented here."

"That was in the ancient past," Snape said, "I remember researching it while I was in school. No one even knows whether they're living creatures, or enchanted corpses, or a race of beings entirely different. I was personally hoping that they were enchanted corpses and that I could somehow set one on your father and his band of hooligans." He looked gravely at Harry, "I never did find the spell to do it. They found out, and one night, Sirius Black snuck into the Slytherin dungeons dressed in rags, and Remus Lupin kept him floating around. I'd cast what I thought to have been dementor-summoning curse earlier that day that I'd been very disappointed hadn't worked. Well, Sirius comes floating up and says 'your wish is my command, o dread sovereign' and I fell for it. I told him in detail where to find James and," Snape paused, sighing at the lost opportunity, "started leading him off towards Gryffindor tower. Sirius really overdid it with his evil cackling laughs and suggestions of evil things to do to James." Snape looked straight at Harry, "It was my misfortune to run into old Professor Binns. He looked over his spectacles at me and asked me what in the world I was doing, hauling Sirius Black around in rags. Gave me detention for a week. I think Sirius and Remus must have put the old blighter up to it, paid him off to punish me. Blast him. Blast them all. They were absolute hellions in school."

Harry laughed. "What is wrong with you? You never told me things like this before!"

"Well you didn't know about it before. You know now. I have nothing to lose. I'm dead after all, I suppose I'll have to get used to all those monkeys eventually because I'm absolutely sure that they didn't mature enough during their short existence on this planet to not play pranks on me in the afterlife." Snape leaned towards Harry and whispered out of the side of his mouth, "You're about as bad as your father, maybe you can give me a couple pranks to play on James, to take with me into the beyond. For old times sake."

"You're absolutely balmy! Either that or I'm halucinating." Harry looked down at the apple that he had just bitten into. "You don't think Pouf is practicing his culinary arts on me again, this early in the morning. Making me thing Snape is telling me stories."

"Oh grow up Potter. It's just a story. I thought you'd like to hear it."

Harry laughed again, "No, you're only making it worse. You're a figment of my imagination. Who are you and what did you do with Severus Septimus Sniper Snape?"

Snape huffed. But it wasn't an angry huff. "Are you going to sit around here all morning? That barrel management class starts in half an hour. I thought you wanted spells to cast so you could look smart."

"I do. You wouldn't teach me any."

"I have thought on the matter," Snape said, "and concluded that I'd better teach you a sobriety inducing spell, even if you don't master it completely it might help. I also wanted to suggest the adjective 'bold' as something you can't possibly go wrong with in winetasting. You see Potter, I too wish to keep Hogwarts from closing its doors due to lack of interest. You'd better put on a good show out there. Now here's the spell-"

* * *

><p>"Harry what in the world do we do!" Hermione wailed to him as he met her in the hallway a few minutes later. "I've talked with Madame Maxime this morning. They're going to ask our opinion on what to do next in the winemaking process! I know nothing about wines. I know nothing about France. I know nothing about Bordeaux-"<p>

"-Hermione you know everything about Bordeaux," Harry said, "don't worry, Snape clued me in on everything."

"And I've had a letter from Ron this morning," Hermione said. "As if I needed more things to worry about."

"Ron's not that bad, is he? Think about it after we get through this awful class."

Hermione gave him a sidelong look. "I think we'll need to talk about it later. I'll let you read it."

"Good, just as long as he doesn't address you as 'My Dearest Ickle Snookums'" Harry teased.

"Actually he said 'My Most Precious Pearl'," Hermione sniffed, "and I thought it very sweet."


	12. First Class

CHAPTER 12

"Fruity," Harry said, waving his wand carefully over the barrel. Tenrdils of aurora reached up from the cask toward his wand, Harry looked at them and tried to look like they meant something to him. "Bold," he stated firmly.

Professor Beaujolais clapped approvingly. The blue-suited students behind him leaned forward in anticipation.

Harry paused, thinking desperately, "a hint of playfulness. Solid legs. Great personality. Probably brunette."

Hermione elbowed him sharply in the ribs.

"That is," Harry amended, "hints of peach and astringency, pleasing temperament. Um, dark plum notes."

Professor Beaujolais was nodding and motioning for more. Harry's heart sank. He wasn't good at this description stuff.

"Silky and elegant, with a shellac finish," He said. He looked over at Beaujolais. "What do you think?" he asked.

Beaujolais sighed. "We must do what we must." He shook his head, as if bewailing the ineptitude of Hogwarts graduates.

Harry frowned at the man. He was only seventeen. How was he supposed to know these things?

"Arabella," Beaujolais motioned to one of the taller girls in is class, he made an exasperated jerky motion with his arm which Harry understood to mean that Arabella was to tell Harry Potter what was what.

Arabella performed the same spell...which was fortunately the spell that they were practicing in class that day so Harry had been aboe to learn it and not look like a complete idiot. Arabella took several tries to get the spell right. Harry had gotten it right on his first try. He would have felt superior about this had not Arabella been a third year student. Arabella rattled off a few words in French.

He'd almost forgotten. None of the children spoke English. At least Professro Beaujolais didn't need a translator.

Beaujolais smiled approvingly and clapped Arabella on the shoulder, then summoned another student. Harry breathed a small sigh of relief and stepped back and away.

Frankly he'd never seen so much alcohol in his life. Barrels of wine, stacked six high lined an immense narrow underground cavern that twisted and wound beneath Beauxbatons. Great wooden vats stood at the ready close to the mouth of the cave, and Harry had walked by them and wondered how many gallons each would hold. The ceiling, forty feet above them, had been bricked over with vast curving arches of mortar. They had walked for several minutes to reach the barrels that were being tested today, and there still was no sign of an end to this cave. Perhaps it was endless, and deep inside, dust covered bottles sat where they had been laid down by Beauxbatons' vintners, a thousand years ago, slowly molding in the darkness. Harry shuddered.

"Hogwarts does not have a wine cellar, does it?" Beaujolais commented, seeing Harry staring off into the cavern. "It is such a pity, but then again the climate in Britain is most unsuited for grapes. They must content themselves with beer, I've been told." He looked directly at Harry, "butterbeer for the children too. It is no wonder that so many of the English are small and sickly looking. They have not benefited from the childhood strength of a good robust wine."

"The legal drinking age in Britain is twenty years old," Hermione said, and she said it with the perfect snobbish air, "just because we are part of the wizarding community does not mean that we disregard the laws of our homeland."

"But you have butterbeer," Beaujolais said, as if this settled the argument. He turned away and cast his hands skywards as if to implore heaven to save all Brits from their butterbeer.

"We air eenterested in 'Ohgwarts," Arabella said, drawing another Beauxbatons girl by the elbow up to Harry, "eez it true zat zere are 'ouses zat each child eez zorted into?"

"Yes," Harry said, "four, actually. Gryffyndor, my own house, and the best. Ravenclaw, for the wisest. Hufflepuff for the loyal, and Slytherin."

"For Dark Wizards." Hermione stated. "There is actually talk at Hogwarts about closing Slytherin House. It has never turned out any wizards or witches who didn't feel the evil influence of its founder."

"Slytherins aren't one-hundred-percent bad," Harry blurted out, before he even thought about it. He choked on his words as he said it, but it had to come out.

Hermione gave him a look like she thought he'd had too much to drink. Ron would have called it the 'are you bleeding mental' look.

"Professor S-Slughorn," Harry said, thinking rather quickly, "he turned out good in the end. Has his weaknesses and all, but he fought for us in the Battle of Hogwarts. Excellent potions teacher. Very encouraging to young students. He always tried to give them a good start in life."

Hermione was not convinced.

"Ai zhould very much laik to visit 'Ohgwarts," Arabella said, "perhaps next zummer."

"Oh you should!" Hermione jumped in, "we offer summer classes. It would be a wonderful chance to meet new friends and see a different culture. You speak wonderful English, I'm sure you'd have a marvelous time."

Professor Beaujolais caught the last part of this little speech and started bustling through the crowd towards Hermione.

Hermione pulled out a business card from her pocket, "My owl," she said, "write to me and I'll arrange everything."

Arabella giggled thanks and immediately started translating to her friend in rapid French.

"How are you so prepared?" Harry muttered in Hermione's ear. "I wish I'd thought of that."

Hermione handed out several more cards before the end of the class. Beaujolais had looked upon this activity with some suspicion, but he allowed it easily enough. Trust Hermione to save the day. Harry made a mental note to write to McGonagall as soon as possible and order a pack of cards made up for himself.

Next class was Wine Chemistry.

* * *

><p>"Don't they drink anything but wine in this country?" Hermione complained as they marched across the gardens and back to the main building. "Don't they think about anything else?"<p>

They had an entire hours respite from attending classes, during which Madame Maxime had insisted that they lunch with her and some of her staff. It wasn't a complete break, but at least they had some time to themselves as they walked back from the Canopy Management class.

"If I have to pluck another leaf today my fingers are going to be permanently dyed green," Hermione said, "every time I close my eyes I see leaves. Ratios of leaves per runner, ratios of runners per cordon, differences based on trellising. I'm going to go mad! That class didn't even mention magic! I'm sure I didn't even hear it spoken of!"

"They've got a different method here," Harry said, and he wished Ron was here so that he wouldn't have to face Hermione's wrath alone. "Fleur Weasley is certainly an accomplished witch. She wasn't at her best during the Triwizard tournament...lost every competition if I remember...but she's excellently prepared and look how easily she got Bill Weasley to fall for her and I'm sure he's not the type to just fall for her pretty face."

Hermione looked at Harry, rolled her eyes and looked away.

After a pause, she said, "that reminds me about the letter I got from Ron this morning."

"Oh?"

"Ginny is engaged to Dean Thomas."

"Oh."

"I don't think it's true," Hermione said quickly, "you know how Ron is with engagements. I think more likely that he's imagining things. Besides, I've talked with Ginny," Hermione's eyes flashed up at Harry, "I'm sure she likes you. Likes you a lot too. She's probably just...going out with Dean Thomas."

Harry didn't trust his voice to speak for a moment. He felt like a great iron band had constricted about his chest. He forced himself to take a breath.

"It's my fault," he said, "I should have told her before we left." Told her what, pray tell? "I, well, I should have asked her out to dinner once or twice after the Battle of Hogwarts. I mean, I've been over to the Weasleys, spent Easter with them too, a full week. Ginny's busy with school. I hardly saw her much..." his voice failed him.

"We can talk about it later," Hermione said.

Harry certainly did not want to talk about it later. In fact he was definitely sure he'd said too much already. He made a strangled, noncommittal noise and Hermione left off.

They walked on in silence.


	13. One Down

"Potter, enchante."

"Bienvenue Monsieur Potter."

"E voila! 'Arry Potter!"

It wasn't a luncheon with Madame Maxime and a few of her staff. It was twenty people, all as obnoxious as Rita Skeeter, pushing in around him, demanding his life story in at least three different languages, laughing at jokes he didn't understand, looking bemused when he stammered out some answer, and poking him in the ribs and saying "You're so bright and witty, you should have been at Beauxbatons Academy instead of that little school...what did you call it again?"

Even Hermione was losing her aplomb. Her smiles and chatter had given way to dull exasperated looks and a curt "sorry" when people told her that she was depriving the whole of elegant society in Europe of her talent by burying herself in gloomy, backwards England.

Harry had managed to steal away from the main group of chatter and corner Mr. Pouf over behind the davenport. Harry handed the man a glass of punch.

"Cheers," Harry said, "this is excellent by the way, do I detect a hint of nutmeg?"

Pouf laughed, an easy and ringing laugh. "Oh I'm smoked out again. Yes that's a particular recipe of my own invention."

"You must have been sent here to quiet my nerves," Harry said, taking another sip of the hot punch. "I've never had so many questions to answer in all my life."

"Well that's how it is when you're famous, you know," Pouf said, "I should have thought you'd have gotten used to it by now."

"At least autographs aren't as popular here as they are in Britain," Harry said, clenching and unclenching his hand to get the sting out of it.

"How are you holding up?" Pouf asked.

"Class with Professor Beaujolais this morning," Harry said, "we looked at some of last year's harvest. Excellent stuff. I learned a lot. After that it was with Professor Laffite and we took a look at some of the vines in the south corner under the trees."

Pouf looked interested.

"I was actually helpful on that one," Harry continued, "taught them all a banishing spell for powdery mildew...my best mate's mum used it all the time on her shower curtains." He smiled, "that's what comes of living in gloomy, backwards England, I suppose."

Pouf laughed again. "You don't say you knew a mildew spell that Mademoiselle Laffite hadn't heard of? Mon dieu, you are the chosen one!"

As his thoughts flitted to the Weasleys, a pang laced its way through Harry's chest. Pouf saw the expression and reached for a tray of olives.

"Here," he handed one to Harry, "are you all right? Not your scar hurting? We all heard that it did, during the war."

"No, not my scar," Harry said. He rubbed his throat with his left hand, then he stopped. What if Pouf had cast that curse on him last night? Ridiculous. He could just as easily have poisoned him in the morning.

"What is it?" Pouf asked quietly.

"I - I had a rough night," Harry said, "jet lag. That is, broom lag. Bad dreams." It was lame. He knew it was lame.

"Ah," Pouf said, "that. That's quite normal for newcomers to Beauxbatons. Anywhere, really. It's just that Beauxbatons is haunted by some very evil auras, spirits of the murderous rage of the Revolution." He eyed Potter carefully, "we've had our own major wizarding war. It slightly resembles your recent one, but however, instead of the purebloods murdering all the halfbloods, all the halfbloods began murdering all the purebloods. Same thing really. The emotions of those times still linger in the palace here." Pouf gestured around, "Danton met Robspierre on his last day of freedom in this very room, before he was betrayed. I don't suppose Hogwarts has such a history?"

Harry didn't know. As Hermione was constantly reminding him, he hadn't even read Hogwarts, A History.

"I heard a rumor today, sir," Harry said suddenly, "and forgive me if I ask this in the wrong way. I was brought up by muggles and raised in a barn, so all my friends tell me...but I heard that you were a Borgia. I didn't know what it meant."

"A Borgia?" Pouf said. He stepped back from Harry and set his glass on an end table. There was a large, ornate mirror on the wall. Pouf appraised his features in this, and turned his head left and right. "Gracious I do need to get out in the sun more. But not a Borgia, really?"

"I'm sorry," Harry said, "like I said, I don't even know what it means."

"Oh, not much nowadays," Pouf said, and picked his glass up again, "No, I don't consider myself to be a Borgia. It's not entirely a compliment for a political chef to be called a Borgia...but of course I know you didn't mean it that way. The Borgias were renown for using food to accomplish their aims, and those aims were frequently murder. The magical art of the political chef grew out of those times and history." Pouf smiled back at Harry, "but if you think I've got a stash of belladonna in my signet ring, I'm sorry to disappoint."

A woman in scarlet robes elbowed her way forward, "a Borgia! Oh no, surely you're mistaken. He's not nearly that ugly! Just a little bit ugly, mon cher."

"May I have the pleasure of introducing my lovely wife, an ajunct for our architectural program," Pouf said, "Francesca, this is Harry Potter."

"How do you do," Harry said, not at all pleased with the woman's simper.

Francesca Pouf began remarking on the weather: just adorable and so right for a picnic you must lunch with us next week, smocking: the ladies' newest fashion in robes and how it does flatter the elegant figure, corinthian capitals: a reemergence of the classic combined with a modern twist sort of like art noveau only old. After a suitably vapid interval, she dragged Pouf away to say hello to one of her old schoolmates, who had come all the way from Chalet to be here for the Summer Incantation of Health.

Harry lurched away, wrung the perfume from his clothes, and clomped off to find Hermione. On the way he ate several of Pouf's dishes and felt vastly better. He was beginning to swear by this political chef thing. Hermione was standing across the room, talking to a very insistent middle-aged man. Harry watched as she sent him to get her a glass of water and some cake. The moment his back was turned, Hermione hid behind a vase.

"Having a good time?" Harry asked, joining her.

"Harry," Hermione whispered. "Hagrid's not here. Madame Maxime is here, but Hagrid's gone! I hope he's all right but since someone tried to kill you last night I'm worried!"

"Are you sure he's not here?"

"Of course I'm sure. He's ten feet tall! Rather hard to miss, don't you think?"

"Well don't panic, I've just been talking to Mr. Pouf, and I don't think he's anything to worry about." Harry said, "and there's this spell that Snape taught me this morning. It's an anti-poison spell. I want to show it to you."

"Poison?"

"Not so loud."

Hermione's beau returned at that moment with her cake. He was a sickly looking, thin man, with long fingers and teeth. Perhaps Hermione could relate, considering the magic she'd done on her own teeth to get out of years of braces and Slytherin teasing.

"Harry Potter, is it?" he said, stuffing the cake into Hermione's hand and extending his own. "Charmed. If you'll forgive me the pun."

"Charmed," Harry said, trying to laugh, "right."

"I'm Dr. Mouton," he said, "Head of our staff of Magical Healers. I've heard a lot about you. In fact, I've heard something that might be of extreme use to some of my patients."

"Oh?"

"Yes. I've heard that you can produce a full Patronus Charm," he said. "I have several interns who are working jointly on a study on placebos. Would you do me the honor of tutoring them in producing a Patronus. Perhaps let us run a few tests while we're there, see the effect on your brain chemistry." He turned back to simper at Hermione, "fascinating things Patronus charms. I feel that it can really tell one so much about oneself. It takes a different shape to each person, you know," Dr. Mouton said. He clearly enjoyed hearing himself talk. "Each one a guardian angel against the dangers of overwrought brains."

"Have you many problems with dementors at Beauxbatons?" Hermione asked, in perfectly natural, unguarded tones.

Harry held his breath.

"No," Dr. Mouton said, his voice cooling off a little, "why do you ask?"

"Well," Hermione said innocently, "I've always heard that the Patronus charm was only used around dementors. They say that dementors were created in France, I just thought that, some historical preservation society or something must have kept a few. Why else would anyone possibly need to use a spell as complicated and intricate as a Patronus charm?"

It was Harry's turn to subtly poke Hermione in the ribs. Don't overdo it.

She must have struck exactly the right tone with Dr. Mouton, because he immediately leaned back, rocked on his heels and began to lecture them. Harry had seen Slughorn in this mode, when he had a particular student that he wanted to court. Trust Hermione to know exactly how to stroke a teacher's ego. She stood there, batting her eyelashes and making dimples appear on her cheeks. Harry had never figured out how girls could do that.

"Indeed they were, a long time ago," Dr. Mouton said, "and the legend is that it was done right in this palace. By a dark wizard, long ago, I forget his name...Saint John...I think, don't quote me on that, ha, ha. Legend has it that the first dementors contained all the agony of the Albigensian Crusade, they were created about that time even if the legend isn't true. That this Saint John fellow looked around him at the effects of this massive civil war, this genocide, if you will. He looked at all the pain an suffering around him and soaked it in like a sponge. And when he created the dementors, he poured it all out again. Healed himself from all that grief. It's written up in some very old text somewhere in my office. Well, now he had a dementor on his hands, you see? It wasn't very pleasant, and it got out, leaked terrible emotions all over the palace before he could chase it back again. Well that's the story, anyhow."

"But how do you create a dementor?" Hermione asked, "doesn't the legend say how he did it?"

Dr. Mouton turned a very superior stare down at Hermione, "I don't believe dark magic of that sort is fit for young ladies of good breeding."

Hermione's smile never faltered. It took stamina to stand down a statement like that and Harry was proud of her for it.

"Academic interest, that's all," Hermione said, "merely trying to apply the scientific method. I'm so disorganized."

"Ah yes," Mouton said and took a bite of his piece of cake, "disorganized brains are the first signs of mental illness."

Harry felt very creeped out. Dr. Mouton gave Hermione a short bow and walked stiffly away.

"Mental illness," Harry shrieked.

"Not so loud," Hermione whispered.

Harry gulped back a few very choice words and lowered his voice, "who's he to talk about mental illness? Absolute mental nutter."

Dr Mouton turned back around and faced them. There was a stricken look on his face.

Harry and Hermione froze.

Dr. Mouton rocked back and forth on his heels unsteadily. "Dementor centroid!" he gurgled, "the borgia!".

Then he fell to the floor, dead.

* * *

><p>Madame Maxime screamed.<p>

Harry seemed to watch it all in slow motion, the familiar crumple of a lifeless body, the crowd flowing away from Mouton as he fell. A glass of champagne shattered on the floor and splashed across Dr. Mouton's suit. When Madame Maxime's scream had finished, the silence was deafening.

Mr. Pouf seized a plate of canapes and rushed to the fallen man, but Harry knew that it was too late. Hermione beat Pouf to the body.

"No!" Hermione shouted, "don't touch him!"

Pouf reeled backwards.

"She eez right!" Madame Maxime said, "eet was you who killed 'im! 'Is dying words told us all!"

"I?" Pouf said, stunned. "I did not kill this man! I've never even met him!"

"Yes," Madame Maxime said, storming forward and pushing a heavily jeweled finger at Pouf's chest, "You knew 'e was to be your replacement! 'ead of ze medical zchool, no place for old fasioned political zhef! No! You 'ave killed 'im and spoiled it all! Now what will 'ze Rothschilds zay when zair representative 'eez killed? Gone from Beauxbaton! Mon Dieu and ze day before ze ceremony!" She collapsed onto her knees, gasping for breath and clutching her bosom. Even in this position she was still taller than Pouf.

Pouf tried to back away from the giantess.

"There here!" shrieked a voice, "don't worry now they're here!"

Harry turned to see Fleuris Umbridge-Fortescue-Smythe leading in a gendarme by the elbow.

"Officer," she said firmly, and pointed at Madame Maxime, "arrest that creature!"

Pouf continued to back away.

Fleuris pushed the officer forward, "she's been breeding manticore in her rooms here at the palace! She's a half-giant! She's been breeding dementor too! I saw one last night, I couldn't believe it at first, but it went straight into her rooms! She will destroy us!"

Madame Maxime raised her head.

The look on her face was decidedly ugly.

"Now now," the gendarme said, panicked, "let's come along quietly."

"Eet was 'im!" Madame Maxime said, pointing at a vanishing Pouf.

"Run Franchesca!" Pouf shouted, and then dashed out of the room.

The gendarme took off after him like a hunting dog unleashed on a rabbit.

Harry looked for Mrs. Pouf, but she was already gone. Apparated, he shouldn't wonder.

Madame Maxime stood up, glowering down at Fleuris. "You, foolish girl! You know nothing of this!"

Fleuris stood her ground. "I do not have my wand right now," she said coldly, "but I still demand an answer. As the ministry's representative I must have an answer. By my authority, I place everyone at Beauxbaton, including myself under house arrest, until you tell me the truth."

Madame Maxime took a step forward.

Hermione was faster. She, at least, had no namby-pamby adversion to carrying a concealed wand.

"Mysterium Alethiadzatai!" she shouted, raising her wand to the sky, "Restrana Vindictium!" and finally, "Repellum Muggletum."

All eyes had turned to her.

"I've cast a curse on everyone who was here," she said, her face slowly turning pink, "including Pouf. On everyone in the castle, in fact, including myself. If you try and leave before the killer is brought to justice, you'll deeply regret it. I won't be responsible." Her breathing was intensifying, "we need to do this in an orderly fashion. We need to call the aurors, or the police, or whoever is handy, and we need to examine all the strange things that have been going on here. There's more to this than meets the eye," her eyes searched the room, and then landed on the large vase that she and Harry had been hiding behind earlier.

"Stand back," Hermione said, as she drew the bouquet of flowers out. She cast them onto Dr. Mouton's body. A green flash lit the room. Harry watched a wraith of smoke curl from Mouton's chest, and heard a whispered Avada Kedavra curse. The flowers wilted black.

"That's what would have happened to the first one to touch his body," Hermione said. "All our lives are in danger."

Harry stared down at Mouton in shock. The doctor's face wore a surprised, anguished expression. The black flowers lay scattered around the body.


	14. Two To Go

Everyone filtered back to their rooms in the haze of confusion that followed. The crowd was panicked but silent. Madame Maxime got to one knee and pushed herself to her feet. Fleuris Umbridge-Fortescue-Smythe stood with her jaw fallen, stock still. The solitary policeman took up his post by Dr. Mouton's body.

Harry reached for Hermione's hand and led her back upstairs.

As they walked the halls, they could see the news racing around like wildfire. The blue-clad students whispered grimly to each other, each one hearing the news and pacing off to tell it in turn. The hallways really were endless, endless mirrors and windows, endless paintings of knights on horseback, endless hardwood chairs and tables with vases of brilliantly colored flowers. A girl was sitting on one of the chairs, bend across the table and crying. Harry squeezed Hermione's hand and pulled her along.

He opened the door to his room and ushered her inside. The sun had passed the midday mark and the room was cast in gray shadow. Snape was standing by the curtains looking down onto the lawn.

Hermione took a heavy breath and went to sit on the upholstered bench.

"I was just talking with him," she said, "and then he died."

Snape turned around upon hearing her voice. He arched an eyebrow. "Of course I hate to interrupt, but there's something going on here that you might like to see."

Harry ran to the window. Snape pointed to the lawn with a ghostly finger.

Two figures were outlined in elongated shadow on the grass. Harry looked up.

"They're on the roof," Snape said. "Watch."

Hermione joined them.

One figure could very possibly have been Hagrid, hair flying everywhere, arms waving wildly. The other figure was much smaller, and unrecognizable. They looked like they were arguing.

Harry watched the dancing shadows, with a horrible premonition, a tingle up his spine.

The end came after a few more seconds. A flash of green.

Hermione screamed as a body fell past the window, and landed soundlessly on the grass. It was the uniformed policeman that Fleuris had called.

"Sorry," Snape said, "who did you say just died?"

Harry seized the window handle to open it, but it was locked.

"It's no use," Snape said, "you saw the curse, he's dead! Don't get involved!"

"At least go check," Harry said, "and then come back."

Snape popped out of existence and then back into existence. "There. He's dead. There's more important things to worry about."

Hermione faltered back from the window, one hand clamped to her mouth.

"You've just watched Hagrid murder a policeman," Snape said, looking inordinately pleased with himself. "Do you know what this means?"

"He didn't do it." Harry said, "you know better than that even if you are a Slytherin. It wasn't Hagrid. It was only a shadow, no one could say for sure who it was."

Hermione sat silently on the couch. Snape was watching her with an odd tender expression in his eyes.

"He was framed, ok?" Harry said, "we've just got to prove it. And we've got to find out who killed the head of the medical school during lunch. Dr. Mouton. We've just come back. His last words were 'dementor centroid, the borgia'. We've got to find out who killed him. Don't just stand there Snape, start thinking! This is all connected somehow. The attack on me, the summer incantation of health, the weird coincidence of Umbridge having a sister. It's all connected and don't deny it! Hagrid didn't murder anyone any more than you did, so stop saying that he did. It's impossible! She's... Absolutely..."

Harry ran out of breath. Snape stood before him silently, his robes billowing softly in a ghostly breeze.

Hermione reached up and took hold of Harry's hand and pulled him down on to the couch.

Harry looked over. "What is wrong with you, we've got to go and prove it wrong! Why are you crying this isn't the time to cry! It's not the right time. Not at all..."

Hermione was indeed crying.

Harry thought that he might be crying too.

"I think," Snape said, "that someone is trying very hard to keep Harry Potter detained in France, possibly sentanced to life in prison, that all his friends and acquaintences are likewise unwelcome and in danger, and that the spells that descended over the Palace forty-three minutes ago were possibly the most brilliant, daring, and courageous piece of single-handed warding magic that I have ever heard of. Ten points to the House of Hermione Granger."

"What happened?" Harry asked.

"We're sealed from the outside world," Snape said, "permenantly, unless this is solved."

"Yes," Hermione said, "there's something loose in the Palace. If it were to get out...I've had an owl from Professor McGonagall." She wiped her nose on the back of her fist and took a deep breath, "I've had a lot of owls today. I didn't understand it until what happened at lunch. We're all contaminated."

"A disease?" Snape asked.

"Yes," Hermione said, "a very clever, very evil plot." She reached into her robes and pulled out the letter.

Harry took it and read it.

Dear Miss Granger,

I hope that this letter does not find you too late. I regret to say that we have reason to believe that Harry's life may be in danger. The trial regarding the incident about the deaths of two civilians during the Second Wizarding War has just begun. It was prosecuted as you know against Dolohov and Runcorn. I fear however, that the trial may be dismissed, and I have reason to believe that this trial, or another similar trial, will inevitably be prosecuted against Harry Potter. The Muggle Prime Minister is enigmatic on this point. I believe that he fears that unless brought back to England in chains, Harry will never return from France. He mentioned that his fear was based on the 'Parisian Centroid'. I didn't know what that was, so I looked it up in the restricted section. I have enclosed the page itself because I dare not trust this information to words in my own hand.

as a friend,

Minerva McGonagall

"That doesn't sound like her at all," Harry said. "as a friend? What is she trying to say? She's trying to give us a message somehow."

"Centroid," Hermione said, "did you notice it?"

"Yes, of course." Harry said. He unfolded the attachment sheet of paper.

The Centroid of a finite set of k points X1, X2, ...Xk in R^n is C = (X1 + X2 + ... + Xk)/k. The centroid of a uniform two dimensional lamina may be found with a plumb bob. The centroid in three-dimensions will require a dowsing rod.

And the rest of the page was heavily smeared in ink blot.

"That doesn't make any sense at all," Harry said.

"It's Arithmancy," Hermione said, "I told you and Ron that you should have been more interested in the practical magical sciences. It's a map."

"A map?"

Harry and Snape spoke at exactly the same time.

Hermione glanced from one to the other. "Well, isn't it obvious?"

There was silence.

"Oh honestly." Hermione got up and walked into Harry's bathroom to rummage around for a while. "Don't tell me you've never heard of dental floss either Harry Potter...oh wait sorry, here it is." She emerged with Harry's toothbrush in one hand and the dental floss in another. She snipped off about three feet and tied the end to Harry's toothbrush.

"Hey!" Harry started to protest.

Hermione held the end of the string and let the toothbrush hand down. "_Dementor Centroid"_ she said.

The toothbrush swung up at an unnatural angle, pointing somewhere inside the Palace, defying gravity. Harry almost felt like the Palace was swinging in its turn beneat his feet.

"Harry, mark the direction down." Hermione said.

"How do I do that?"

"I don't know but hurry, this is getting difficult to hold!"

Harry raced to the bedtable looking for parchment and a quill or something. He thought of something and reached for his wand.

"Accio Camera!" he said. A drawer across the room flew open and a camera lurched out of it.

Harry grabbed it. "Hold still. I'll take you from three angles." He darted around, snapping pictures.

"Does it strike you as slightly unlikely that a camera should be sitting in this room, film loaded, ready for Harry Potter to summon?" Snape said silkily. "Or am I just being a paranoid old man."

Harry froze.

"No I doubt it will kill you," Snape said, "but I'd rather like to develop that roll of film and see what it contains."


	15. Blackmail

"Now what?" Harry asked.

Hermione took the pictures out of the bathroom sink one by one and shook them off carefully. She was using a sticking charm to carefully hang them from the dental floss that was strung from the mirror to the towel rack.

"I thought this was how you developed muggle pictures," Harry said.

"It is," Hermione said, "after its done, you cast the spell and the pictures move. Colin Creevy showed me once."

"What do we do?" Harry asked, "how do we figure out who murdered Dr. Mouton?"

"And the policeman." Hermione reminded him, "and the person who tried to kill you." She put the last picture up on the thread. "These will dry in a few minutes. Come back into the light for a while."

They slipped back into Harry's room and closed their makeshift darkroom door behind them.

Snape was standing guard by the window, gazing imperturbably down at the body on the grass.

Harry felt sick. "No one's found him yet?" he asked.

"Not that I can tell," Snape said, "it's quite hot outside too, there are flies buzzing around him already."

"We should do something," Hermione said, "I'll take the carpet and go to Madam Maxime. It's only right. We witnessed a murder and we need to inform someone of it."

Harry understood the logic of this, but the thought of Hermione venturing into the Palace again alone filled him with a nameless horror. Well he had a name for it actually, an 'over my dead body' kind of feeling. There was a killer out there. Maybe several.

"I'll go with you," Harry said, "In fact, I think we should stick together for now. Neither one out of the other's sight. Look what happened to me last night. If Professor Snape hadn't told you, I'd have died."

"I agree," Hermione said, "and I also think that we need to find Hagrid. I know it that Hagrid wasn't the one that fired that spell. I don't even know if he was on the roof."

"It looked like him to me," Snape said.

"Whatever it was, Hagrid is in as much danger as either of us," Hermione said.

"We've got to plan this out," Harry said, marching away from the window. Where was a quill and paper when he needed them? "First things first. Do we talk to Madame Maxime before we've found Hagrid?"

"I would recommend the photos," Snape said.

Harry glanced up. The ghost of Snape had not moved from the window. Hadn't even looked back. He was staring out at the dead policeman like a hawk-beaked gargoyle, macabre and irresistible.

"How long on those?" Harry asked Hermione.

She sighed, grabbed her wand off of the green velvet chair that she'd left it on, and went back to the bathroom.

"Terrible thing, death." Snape said, once she was gone, "so final. It makes you realize how many things you missed doing in life."

"Like casting a spell on Sirius Black's nose hair?"

"Exactly. Yes. That's on my list, you know."

Harry sat down on the couch and rested his elbows on his knees. He noticed that the fabric covering his knees was almost worn through. He rubbed his palms over the nappy surface. Some ambassador he was, his clothes were falling off his body, people died wherever he went.

"I always wanted," Snape said, very softly, "to give someone a bouquet of wildflowers. I never had the courage."

Harry wasn't sure he was supposed to hear that admission. The ghostly Snape, or was it the Snapely ghost, crossed his arms, and leaned against the curtains that did not bend under his weight.

Hermione shrieked from the bathroom.

Harry was on his feet in an instant, but instantly knew that she was ok. He was a good student of Hermione's vocalizations, having much practice over the years at discerning the tenor of the shriek. Shrieks of joy, shrieks of jealousy, all part of Hermione's unique contributions to life and society.

Hermione burst through the door of the bathroom with a picture held in both hands. "Look at this!"

Harry scrambled to her side. "What?"

The picture showed Professor Pouf, haggard, smoking a cigarette under a tree. After a moment, a Professor Beaujolais walked up to him. Pouf threw the cigarette down and handed him an envelope, then he spat in Beaujolais' face.

"What?" Harry asked.

"Well isn't it obvious?" Hermione said.

Harry was certain that she'd been saying 'isn't it obvious' all day. It didn't help him understand the picture any more. "Professor Pouf doesn't like to give Professor Beaujolais his mail?"

"Can't you see? He's being blackmailed," Hermione said.

"Blackmailed?" Harry said, stupidly.

Snape had started at the word and now glided over to take his own look at the picture.

"Yes," Hermione said, "See, here it goes again, Professor Pouf is waiting for someone. He's nervous, he's got a cigarette. Professor Beaujolais walks up and holds out his hand. Now look at Professor Pouf's face, absolute disgust. He takes out an envelope, he's obviously got it all prepared. Professor Beaujolais doesn't wait to count it, but Professor Pouf spits at him before he goes. Professor Pouf has a secret."

"Who took these pictures?" Snape mused, "who would want to document that Professor Pouf is being blackmailed? And who would want to place the evidence in Harry Potter's room?"

"At lunch," Harry said, "Madame Maxime said that Professor Pouf had killed Dr. Mouton. Mouton's own last words were 'the borgia'. But I don't think that he did it. Why would he do it?"

"You heard," Hermione said, "Madame Maxime said that Dr. Mouton was going to replace Professor Pouf. He was going to lose his job."

"Yes but you don't kill the person who is going to take over your job, you kill the person who is going to fire you," Harry said. "In that case, he should have killed Madame Maxime. I just can't believe that Professor Pouf would do this."

"He ran," Hermione pointed out. "He's still somewhere around the Palace, but I had a hard time warding him and his wife in, they were off like a shot. I wonder why they didn't apparate."

"I don't believe muggles can side-along apparate," Snape said. "From what I've heard of the local gossip, Francesca Pouf is probably a muggle."

Harry and Hermione both turned to Snape.

"Local gossip?" Harry asked, incredulously.

Snape looked nervous, "the Palace ghosts of course. Down in the servant's hall. I went down there for lunch, thank you very much, just because I'm dead doesn't mean that I can't appreciate a snack. They said that Francesca had arrived this morning in a very nice muggle car and that it had taken her two hours to find where Pouf was holed up. Someone even mentioned that she was trying to summon him using a device that they called a 'cell phone'. I believe that's a muggle device."

"Kind of like _Accio?_" Harry asked. "I haven't heard of it."

"Buisenessmen have them," Hermione said, "they're very expensive. I don't remember quite how it works. My father went to a conference and saw a man using one. It's a telephone without a cord."

"So Francesca Pouf is a muggle and Professor Pouf is being blackmailed," Harry said. "It's not unheard of, a muggle marrying a wizard."

"Yes it is," Snape said coldly. "There ought to be a law."

Hermione raised an eyebrow and looked at Harry for an explanation.

One of Snape's parents had been a muggle. Harry didn't remember which one. He did remember that Snape's childhood had not been a happy one. At this thought he got angry; at least Snape had parents! Both of them couldn't have hated their son! He'd seen a memory of Snape's mother, from Snape's first visit to platform Nine & Three Quarters. She had taken him to the train. That was a nice thing to do.

Hermione was still silently asking him for an explanation.

Harry shrugged. "I think we should go and see Madame Maxime. Maybe the three of us can go find Hagrid."

* * *

><p>After another heart-pounding ride on Hermione's magic carpet, they found Madame Maxime at the end of a red carpeted hallway lined in suits of armor. She was pounding on a heavy solid-looking door with one enormous pudgy fist. Harry could almost swear the door was splintering under the attack.<p>

"Come out and face ze juztice of ze people!" she hollered, giving the door a kick with one very large mary-jane shoe. "Oh 'Arry," she said, as they zoomed up. "Perhaps you know a zpell. Ai cannot get in!"

"Who's in there?" Harry asked.

The carpet dumped them at Madame Maxime's feet. Hermione got up, brushed herself off and rolled the carpet back up and leaned it against the wall.

"Ze killer zat is 'oo!"

"You mean Professor Pouf?" Harry said, hazarding a guess. "What makes you think that he's the killer."

"Eet eez obvious," Madame Maxime said, "Doctair Mouton was to 'ave 'ad 'is job, as airlee as next week. Ze board of directors waz not quaite ready to fire 'im zis moment. Eet was to 'ave 'appened aftair ze zummer incantation of health. For ze students, you understand."

"You mean that there was some kind of scandal?" Hermione asked, "and that he was to be gotten rid of while they were on holiday and home with their parents?"

"Exactly," Madame Maxime said, as if Hermione had relieved a great load off her shoulders and now that the secret was out, there was nothing left to say.

"Scandal?" Harry asked.

"There was no scandal! It was all a mistake!" shouted Professor Pouf's voice from behind the great wooden door.

Madame Maxime turned to the door with her jowls set, "You come out 'ere right zis eenstant! Zis eez an outrage! Zere 'as been nossing like zees in ze school for six 'undred years!" she bellowed and began battering the door with her fist again.

"Please!" Hermione said, "he's not likely to come out if you shout at him like that. You look like you're ready to rip him limb from limb."

"And boil 'im een oil aftairwards," Madame Maxime said, with grave finality. "Zen feed 'im to ze fishes."

"Why? What's he done?"

"Zeveral years ago," Madame Maxime said, "zere was a 'orrible accident, or zo we thought at zee time. Madame Fortuna was een ze middle of a palimstry class when se tea zat she was serving, ze clairvoyancy spell on ze tea, eet must 'ave been bad. We found ze entire class, twenty-three students and Madame Fortuna dead, poisoned." Her voice began to waver as she spoke. "Everyone thought eet was an accident. But now Dr. Mouton 'as died in ze exact same way!"

"Not exactly the same way," Harry pointed out.

"Eet was exact I tell you," Madame Maxime said, with fury, "beause Madame Fortuna 'ad written out a messaige een 'er tarot cards. Do you know what zat message zaid?" Madame Maxime leaned forward.

Harry could imagine her as a bull snorting puffs of breath from its nostrils. He shook the image off, it felt slightly disloyal to Hagrid actually.

"I couldn't guess," Harry said.

"Dementor Zentroid!" Madame Maxime said. "Eet was unmistakeable."

"How do you spell a word with tarot cards?" Hermione asked.

"Our divination professor was kaind enough to read it for us," Madame Maxime said. "Ze method of ze last words ees unimportant."

"But I still don't understand why that makes Professor Mouton guilty? What does 'dementor centroid' mean?"

"No one knows for sure," Madame Maxime said, "some say eet was an ancient experiment wiz ze creation of ze dementor guards. Ozzairs say eet was a zecret govairment organization zat kept ze magical community zeparate from ze muggles."

"But why Professor Pouf?"

"Eez a Borgia. Ze Borgia air always mixed up een ztuff laik zat."

"I am not a Borgia! I refuse to listen to this slanderous character assassination any more! I have never had any connection with any Dementors, any Centroids, any Borgias and any Killers! I refuse to stand here and be called a mass murderer! And I refuse to let the Board of Directors pass me over for that puerile Dr. Mouton who couldn't spell his way out of a bee." Professor Pouf flung open the heavy wooden door, his pale face livid. He marched over to one of the suits of armor, wrenched a gauntlet off, and flung it at Madame Maxime's head.

"Madame!" Professor Pouf shouted, "I demand satsifaction!"

Madame Maxime looked at the gauntlet. Madame Maxime looked at Professor Pouf.

Professor Pouf turned whiter than usual.

Madame Maxime raised her arms and lunged at him.

Pouf took off back through the doorway from whence he'd come, and Madame Maxime raced after him, or shall we say, hoisted anchor and issued a full steaming order to the engine room.

"What do we do?" Harry said. "I think she's going to kill him!"

Hermione grabbed the carpet and unrolled it, "Carpet, she said, "catch us up to Professor Pouf!" She leaped aboard and pulled Harry on by the collar.

"It's not like this in books," Harry said, "you know, the part where you question the witnesses."

"Oh books," Hermione said, with uncharacteristic distain. "You can't spend your whole life reading books!"

Unless it was _Hogwarts, a History_ of course. Probably.

The carpet overtook the speeding pair rather quickly, and with another timely command issued by Hermione, it swooped down, knocked against the back of Professor Pouf's knees and scooped him up, and rolled him inside in a jiffy.

"We have apprehended the suspect," Harry told a panting Madame Maxime.

"We." Hermione sniffed.

"Now, if we can have an explanation," Harry said, "what's really going on here?"

"'Ee knows!" Madame Maxime said, pointing at the struggling carpet, "because 'ee killed 'im!"

"What if we put him in handcuffs," Harry said, "so he can't get away, and ask him if he would like to confess to the crime, and fill us in on some minor points like 'what is dementor centroid' and whether or not he can prove that he isn't a borgia."

Madame Maxime stared at him throughout this speech, her face drawing a slow, but determined comprehension.

"You must undairstand," she said, "Ai have twenty-three families zat Ai am responsible to for ze loss of ze lives of zair children. Ai will not let a killer go unpunished! But," she said, heaving, "az you zay, 'ee must face ze blind justice of ze law."

"Let's take him back somewhere safe," Hermione said, "Is there a place in the Palace that we can use?"

A vase on the table next to Hermione's arm took this opportune moment to shatter under the influence of a bullet. Shards of porcelain scattered everywhere. Then another bullet smacked into the wall close to Hermione's head. How does a wizard or a witch instantly recognize gunfire, a phenomenon that they have gone their entire lives without experiencing? What a decidedly silly question.

"Carpet!" Hermione screamed, "get us all out of here! Quickly!"

Magic Carpets as a rule should never be told to hurry up. It over excites them. Seeing as you're likely to suffer whiplash going around any given corner on a carpet that is feeling a bit pokey, and considering that in all of the most advanced magical communities, magic carpets have been deemed by committee to be ungovernably unsafe (see Committee Bill 653A Section ZZPluralZAlpha Prohibited Commerce and Transportation Safety sponsored by P. Weasley) telling a magic carpet to hurry up is the equivalent of taking ones life into one's hands. Hermione had also not specified where the carpet was to hurry up to. Consequently, the magic carpet extended it's edges, scooped up all the relevant parties, and phased. It zoomed through several walls in a perfectly straight line, collided with a large painting of the Sun King, who shouted 'merde' and waved his fist, which prompted the carpet to take a ninety degree right turn, and come to a screeching halt in front of the dead policeman, who was still lying on the lawn.

Then, exhausted, the carpet collapsed onto the grass, freeing everyone from it's tassled clutches.

Harry felt very much like tossing some cookies onto the grass.

"Oh yes," Hermione said, looking queasily from the policeman to Madame Maxime, "I was getting around to mentioning that."


	16. A Few Words

"What 'appened? 'Oo did zis?"

"We don't know," Hermione said, "it was all very strange. We were in Harry's room-"

Madame Maxime raised an eyebrow.

"-and we happened to look out the window and he came sailing off the roof. We could see shadows on the roof." Hermione added, "but we couldn't tell who it was."

"At least, not for sure," Harry put in.

Professor Pouf was staring at the body, every nerve strained in revulsion. He looked like a comical pale figure out here in the setting sunlight. He shaded his eyes with one hand. The movement seemed to bring Madame Maxime back to the problem at hand.

"Did you do zis?" she demanded of Pouf.

"No! I was trying to avoid being torn limb from limb by you. That's where I was, if you recall! Bracing a battered door against an enraged female. This is outrageous. Madame, you will have my resignation as soon as I can find a pen. I thought I had one on me somewhere." Pouf searched fruitelessly through his pockets.

"Zere is no need," Madame Maxime said, "you aire already fired. Why did you kill zis man too?"

"I didn't kill him! I have an alibi! You were there attacking me!" Pouf said, "Don't you see, I'm innocent!"

Hermione folded her arms. "Innocent? Nothing to hide? You'll answer a few questions for us then, won't you?"

Pouf licked his lips, his strange pale eyes darting back and forth.

"Within reason," he croaked.

"Shouldn't we do something about the poor gendarme?" Harry asked. "We don't even know his name."

"Yes of course," Madame Maxime, "'ee must be 'idden. We must bury 'im before anyone sees."

Harry and Hermione exchanged glances.

"It might be better to lay him out in the same room as Dr. Mouton," Harry suggested.

Madame Maxime drew out her wand and cast an invisibility spell in French that Harry didn't recognize, and a levicorpus spell. In an entirely unappropriate flash of humor, Harry thought it might have been more appropriate to cast a levi-corpse spell. He laughed to himself, and then was ashamed. He was getting too used to death, and his own lack of shock frightened him. Had he been like this after Cedric Diggory died? After Fred Weasley? Or Tonks and Remus? It was too much to think about, so he pushed it into a corner of his mind, that small foggy corner full of razor sharp memories that he wished to hide under a layer of dust. They walked back towards the Palace, carpet in tow.

"I think everyone needs to answer some questions," Hermione said. "For instance, Madame Maxime, where's Hagrid?"

"Ai don't know," Madame Maxime said, "Ai 'aven't seen 'im since last night, aftair dinner. But ai am not worried, 'e said 'e was going to go snipe 'unting today. We 'ave lots of snipe een Bordeaux."

"Did he take a paper bag?" Harry quipped, "They can be dangerous, you know."

"A snipe," Madame Maxime said coldly, "'ees a seabird. Zeir eggs are very delicious and 'ighly prized, ees eet not so Mr. Pouf?"

"Undoubtedly. Highly prized."

Pouf trailed along behind the party, fussing with the invisible body, straightening his invisible coat, and smoothing the lapels.

"Zis way," Madame Maxime indicated a side door, "zere will be no students een zis corridor. We can deposit 'eem in ze room unseen."

"People will have to be informed eventually," Hermione said, "It would be highly suspicious to wish to conceal the policeman's death. Especially since you, Madame, are already suspected of the first murder by the French Ministry's representative and this man was brought to the Palace to arrest you. It would practically be an admission of guilt."

Madame Maxime glared down at Hermione nastily.

"Vairy well zen," she snapped.

They walked on in silence for a moment.

"But ai did not kill 'im eet was zat villain Pouf!" Madame Maxime said, "'ee was to lose 'is job to Doctair Mouton. 'ee was spying on 'im. 'ee 'ad Professor Beaujolais spy on 'im. Ai 'ave seen it."

"What did you see?" Harry asked.

"Just zat, Professor Beaujolais 'ee tell Mistair Pouf a zecret, and Mistair Pouf pay 'im for it."

Harry looked over at Pouf, expecting another outburst decrying the slanderous nature of Madame Maxime's allegations. Pouf, however, was merely listening gravely, and did not look like he wanted to add anything to the subject. In fact, Pouf, far from looking uncomfortable, seemed to listen to the revelation of his liasons with Beaujolais as if he was relieved.

"What was the secret that he told you?" Hermione asked Pouf.

"I wanted him to tell me how much Dr. Mouton was going to be paid to take over my responsibilities," Pouf said. "I had an idea that he was going to come on at a lower salary than my current salary. I was right. He was willing to work for less. It was despicable of the board to push me out for a few thousand Francs."

"And how," Hermione said, "exactly, would Professor Beaujolais know this information?"

"I didn't ask him how he knew," Pouf said, "he's a professional. He's good at finding things out."

"Zis is ze door, come on quickly before anyone sees!"

They hurried inside, and Madame Maxime drew a bellpole by the door, raising the lighting slightly. Dr. Mouton was lying on a table in the middle of the room, under a mummification spell probably. His bier was surrounded by bouquets of local wildflowers.

"A few hours ago," Madame Maxime explained, "ze students were allowed to pay zere last respects. I thought it best that ze ones at ze luncheon should zee 'im again. No one else knows. Ai 'ave instructed all ze teachers to take zere classes outside for today and pull weeds among ze vines. Zat was 'andled correctly, Ai am sure. But not two are dead and no one knows oo is ze killair, and anyone may be next!"

"Not only that," Harry said, deciding that he didn't care about Snape's suspicions about Madame Maxime's guilt. "Last night, someone tried to kill me. I didn't see who it was, but they cast a choking spell on me and Hermione saved me."

Hermione glared at Harry. Harry couldn't see why, it was perfectly normal to tell Madame Maxime about the attack. Why not? If they couldn't trust her, who could they trust? And, after all, Hagrid liked her. Hagrid was a good judge of character.

"Tried to kill you?" Pouf exclaimed. "Were they completely insane? You're Harry Potter!"

"It seems that is all the more reason," Hermione said. "After all, there are still plenty of wizards and witches around who were very disappointed when Harry defeated Voldemort. He's an obvious target for an anarchist looking for revenge."

"But don't you realize," Pouf said, "that they could never _possibly_ get away with it. Every community in Europe would be on the alert. They could never hide after committing the murder of the century..." Pouf glanced apologetically at Harry, "sorry to make it sound so commercial," Pouf said, "but you're more famous in France even than the television actors, and we didn't even participate in the war."

"Please," Madame Maxime said, "'ave some respect for ze dead."

She undid the invisibility spell that she'd cast on the gendarme and lowered the body onto the table next to Dr. Mouton. Side by side, surrounded by flowers, they looked like quite the odd couple. Perhaps a pair of detectives from centuries past. Harry realized that no one ever asked the gendarme's name. It had all happened so quickly, there was no time for introductions. The poor man was just another man of the law, no identity, no one to mourn him.

Madame Maxime straightened the man's jacket, as if Pouf hadn't fiddled with it enough on the way there, reached inside his coat and drew out his wallet.

"I will take zis," she said, "when ze killer is found and Miss Granger releases ze wards, Ai expect zat 'is family will 'ave to be told personally." She drew out the man's identification papers, "'oratio Devereaux. Ai will zay a few words."

Hermione folded her hands and inclined her head. Harry copied her. Pouf stood blinking in shock at the whole series of revelations.

"Each of us will take ze path zat you took today, Monsieur Devereaux, and so each of us wishes you Bon Voyage, and Bon Chance. May your soul be always at peace."

They stood silently for a moment. Harry suddenly wished rather fiercely that Snape had been given a funeral. It had all happened so quickly after the battle of Hogwarts. McGonagall had been insistent that the burial arrangements for all the dead, were to be made as quietly and quickly as possible. All the death eaters were cremated, after they had been identified and recorded, and all the student's bodies were buried on the Hogwarts grounds, near Dumbledore's grave. Snape had been cremated with the rest of the Death Eaters, even though McGonagall knew the truth about him. There had been too much anger at the time, no one wanted to listen to tangled stories about double crossers, and triple crossers and spies and spies who spied upon the spies. The lines had been drawn then, black and white. Snape had the dark mark on his arm, and it was very easy to shuffle his life off into a corner and ignore it.

But Harry couldn't forget.

'Course, Snape couldn't forget either or he'd have shuffled off this mortal coil instead of hanging around Harry's bedroom morosely accusing Hagrid of murdering policemen.

"Now," Madame Maxime said, "Monsier Pouf, Ai would appreciate if you would promise to me zat you will remain unbarricaded in your offices, and will be ready to ansair questions as needed."

"But what if someone tries to kill me too?" Pouf protested.

"'ave your wife take care of it," Madame Maxime said coldly, "and remembair Ai saw 'er at ze luncheon, Ai know she is somewhere 'ere in ze Palace. And she is locked in with ze wards, is she not? 'Ermione," Madame Maxime turned to Hermione, "ze wards will 'old binding on muggles too?"

"Yes," Hermione said.

Pouf blushed.

"You're wife, Francesca," Harry said, "she's a muggle?"

Pouf turned a laser-focused gaze on Harry and didn't say a word. Harry decided not to press the question.

"'Arry," Madame Maxime said, "Ai must zee you in my boudoir, alone. Come in three hours."

"Brilliant," Harry said.


	17. Three Trials

"You are not going alone," Hermione said with a stubborn touch of finality in her voice.

Harry was struggling to keep up as she stormed down the corridor and retrieved the flying carpet.

"Get on," she said, and gave Harry a leg up onto the carpet. She was distinctly snappish.

"Hermione," Harry said, "I think I can look after myself for an hour or two."

Hermione glared at him and hopped up on the carpet alongside him. "I want to talk this over with Professor Snape. He's got vastly more experience in this sort of thing than you. And no, you can't look after yourself for an hour or two. What if someone tries to kill you? None of us can look after ourselves for an hour or two, it's much too dangerous! This is no time for bravado, we need to stick together and do this intelligently."

"Snape?" Harry sputtered, "vastly more experience? Who got eaten by a snake?"

"_Professor_ Snape has an advantage in this situation," Hermione said, "if you haven't noticed."

"What?"

Hermione just looked at him and rolled her eyes. "Honestly, take care of yourself, can you?"

Harry frowned and developed a distinctly bad mood. Who did Hermione think she was, stepping in and running the entire show. As if she was less vulnerable to an attack than he was. Who defeated Voldemort? Who fought off a hundred dementors? Well it wasn't Ronald Weasley.

Or his girlfriend.

The carpet skidded to a stop in front of Harry's room.

"Why don't we meet in your room for once?" Harry said.

"Because Professor Snape is haunting your room." Hermione said, and flounced by him and through the door. "I want to talk to him."

The room was empty. No ghostly figure staring moonily out the window.

"See, he's not here," Harry said. "Look, give it a rest. Madame Maxime's not going to kill me. She's innocent."

"How do you know that?" Hermione challenged.

Harry shrugged. "I have this feeling."

"It's not good enough."

"It should be."

Hermione set her jaw and regarded him carefully. "I hope you know what you're doing," she said, "and I want you to take extra precautions. Do you still have the DADA medallion I gave you?"

"Um," Harry fished in his pockets, "yeah, here it is." He held it up.

"If you're in danger, just put your hand in your pocket and hold it. It'll heat up in your hand," Hermione said. She pulled a similar medallion from around her neck and showed it to him. "and I'll feel it here. I wish we could have a reliable way of summoning Snape."

"Well," Harry said, "While I'm in with Madame Maxime, you'll have some time to look up haint summoning in the library."

"Nonsense," Hermione said, "I'm going to go find Hagrid."

"What!"

"He's been gone for almost an entire day! We already know that there are murderers and blackmailers about," Hermione said, "I think he's been kidnapped."

Harry laughed. "We'll then they'd have to find some place to hide him, and Hagrid isn't exactly easy to hide."

"Get on with you," Hermione said, "I'm just going to find him, that's all."

"Not alone, not without me." Harry said, "weren't you just talking about how it was too dangerous and we all needed to stick together?"

"Oh I'm not going to go alone," Hermione said archly.

"Snape doesn't count anymore." Harry said, "he can't protect you becasue he's dead."

"No indeed," Hermione said, "I'm going with Fleuris Umbridge Fortescue Smythe, although she doesn't know it yet."

* * *

><p>Harry knocked on the door to Madame Maxime's arbor-boudoir. After a moment of silence, the handle turned, and Madame Maxime herself ushered him in in complete silence.<p>

She led him across the grass and over a stream to another canopy tent very like the one that he'd visited before. This time, however, once they were inside, she untied the tassels and let the heavy brocade tapestries fall across the doorways. Then she drew her wand and cast a spell in French. Harry thought he recognized a silencing charm, as if they were inside an impenetrable bubble.

"'Arry," Madame Maxime said, "Ai receved a letter zis morning, before all ze trouble. Ai'd like for you to read it."

She took off one of her shoes, and pulled a folded up scrap of parchment from under one of the soles.

"It was zo eemportant," she said, "Ai did not dare let it out of my sight." She unfolded the parchment and handed it to Harry.

He squelched the desire to hold his nose. The paper was slightly damp, and very squished, with a tear in one corner. It was written in brilliant red ink.

"Aloud, please," Madame Maxime said, "Ai must 'ear it again. I don't know what eet means."

"To Headmistress Maxime of Beauxbaton Academy," Harry began, "Cheerio from merry old England and Bonjour. Doubtless you have heard of the three major trials taking place in our country, and such trials! I daresay that the course of magical history, well, everyone's history really, is about to be inevitably changed. We are in a period of redefining the nature of law and justice, good and evil, wizard and muggle, reality and evidence. The first trial, as everyone always suspected, is the pending case of _The__1980__Riddle__Family__Revocable__Trust__v.__H.__Potter_, seeking monetary and punitive damages from the alleged reckless destruction of seven valuable Riddle Family Artifacts by the defendant, in which the prosecution and Trustee Lucius Malfoy is also the lead defendant in the much reported criminal proceeding _United__Kingdom__v.__Malfoy;__Greyback;__Carrow;__Carrow__et.__al._which has been the subject of much tabloid speculation in recent weeks. Well everything was proceeding very decorously in these two cases, all parties had been served, etc.,"

"I have not been served!" Harry interjected.

Madame Maxime shrugged and waved her hands, "go on, zere is much more."

"...until today when a dreadfully unusual thing happened. We have been holding the defendants in the criminal proceeding in maximum security, surrounded by Aurors and two dementor guards who had been released into our custody for the duration of the remodeling work at Azkaban Prison. Well, Malfoy was visiting his lawyer, and I happened to be standing in the hall, waiting to speak with Ginny Weasley, when the two dementor guards suddenly gave a frightful screech and flew into the sky, into the broad daylight. We sent an Auror out to recover them, but they had long gone. Thinking quickly, however, and this was my idea, we called in the RAF and had them track the dementors on radar. They headed straight to Paris. I talked to Kingsley and he thought that there might be something strange going on, like the dementors had been summoned to Paris. Well so long as Voldemort's not back again, there's not much that the Parisians do that worries me. I was wondering if you wouldn't look into it. There's something strange going on with the dementors, but I for one always thought they were strange creatures to begin with, makes one's flesh creep if you know what I mean, but useful, devilish useful. We've gotten a tip from MI-6 recently that there was talk that an ex-Parisian Centroid operative, Francesca Pouf, was staying at Beauxbaton Palace for the famous Summer Incantation of Health. She's a known Bond-Girl, if you know what I mean, so keep an eye out. Let me know if anyone dies. Tata, cheerio, and oh P.s. I forgot to mention the third trial, _Ministry__of__Magic__Britain__v.__G.__Weasley_ for the invasion and destruction of an invaluable private collection of prophecies. Dear Ginny's a nice girl, I've made sure the warden gives her extra portions. Say Hello to Harry for me, T. Blair, Prime Minister of England etc."

Harry stared at the words on the page and blinked.

As he had read the letter, a hundred things had sprung into his mind. Centroid! that word again, Malfoy, did he escape when the dementors did? Destruction of Riddle Family Artifacts, well I should bloody well say so! But it had all fled from his mind as he'd read the last few sentences.

"Ginny's in jail?" he croaked.

Madame Maxime did not appear to hear him, "Ai still don't know what it means! 'ere 'e is talking about 'Centroid' again, and Paris, and ze dementors. Zere eez no communications to Beauxbaton in or out while your freind 'ermione's wards are in place. Ai cannot zummon 'elp! Ai cannot contact Minister Chiraq to find out what eez going on! For all we know ze dementors are descending upon ze students at zis very instant!" Madame Maxime bent down and seized Harry by the shoulders.

"Zis is why Ai need you!" she said emphatically, "you must convince 'ermione zat ze murder 'as been solved. She must lift ze wards and we must call for 'elp! Zis is much bigger zan two children can 'andle! You are so young! We need more information and zere is a killer on ze loose!"

Harry imagined a dank, dripping cell, icicles forming and Ginny in the corner, knees crouched to her chest for warmth. The warden opened a hatch and slid in food, extra portions, on a tray on the floor.

"I've got to go back to Britain." he said, "I can't stay here anymore."

"You see! Exactly what Ai've been saying!"

"Ginny's in danger," he said, "I can't believe Kingsley Shacklebolt would let them throw her in jail! It was a war! Don't they see that, what are those stupid prophecies compared to everyone's lives!"

Madame Maxime reeled back as Harry kept shouting, louder and louder. She looked at him dazed, the ten foot tall 'large boned' half-giant gazing at a small and scrawny eighteen year old.

"Ginny didn't do anything, there were lots of us there! It was as much my fault as anyone's we wouldn't have gone unless it was for me. The death eaters were looking for a prophecy about me! Ginny saved hundreds, no thousands of people's lives that day! She helped defeat the strongest dark wizard the world has ever known! And they throw her in jail for a few prophecies from moon-eyed professors of divination!"

Harry stopped, realizing that he was screaming, and frantic. His mouth felt dry, but his head was burning hot.

Madame Maxime stared at him for a long time.

"Ai do believe," she said finally, "zat you are attracted to Miss Weasley. Ai thought you took after zat Cho girl. Miss Weasley 'ad anozzer man." She looked down at Harry steadily, "eez it unrequited feelings?"

Harry's blood went from pounding on his temples to frozen solid ice in his veins.

"I don't know," he said softly.

Madame Maxime smiled. "I 'ope not."

Harry knew all at once that he wanted to get out of France as quickly as possible. He'd post bail for Ginny. No, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley would have already done that if bail had been set. He knew! He'd coordinate a jail break! Just a few puking pastilles from the Joke Shop, a flying car, a chapel...

He staggered back, "I'm sorry," he told Madame Maxime, "I don't know what's gotten into me."

"Sit down!" she said, "of course, eet has been a long day! Do not be afraid to show strong passionate feelings! Eet is ze French way! You are becoming quite ze native, no? But 'Arry," Madame Maxime continued, "we must talk about what to do wiz ze Poufs. Zis eez why I so strongly accuse 'im earlier today. Ai believe eet was 'is wife 'oo took a shot at us earlier. 'ow can we 'ave proof? We must not let zem kill again!"

"But why would the Poufs want to kill anyone?" Harry asked, "people just don't go out and start killing. They must have a motive."

"Ai don't know." Madame Maxime said, "But we can always figure out ze motive aftair ze are in protective custody. You see why we must convince 'ermione to lower ze wards?"

"Yes," Harry said, "and I'll do it. I'll persuade her. I'm sure she'll listen to me, or at least listen to reason."

"Zat's ze spirit."


End file.
